Many a true word spoken in jest, Mr. Tom, thought I.
“You’ll wait for the vacant interpretership, eh?” said the mamma.
“Well, that’s right, and like a prudent young man.”
“That is an appointment admirably suited for you, Mr. Rattleton; you speak the language with such fluency and purity,” observed Miss Lucinda.
“Upon my life,” said Tom, “you’re a great quiz; how long, Miss Maria, is it since your sister became so satirical? but as for the language,” added Tom, a little piqued, “I don’t think I speak that badly, after all. Now I appeal to you, Mrs. Brownstout—you’re a judge, and will do me justice.”
“Why,” said Mrs. B., “pretty well—pretty well, considering you’re almost a griffin.”
“Oh, yes, you speak it like a native—of England,” added Lucinda, laughing.
Tom stood this and a good deal more pretty well, being evidently accustomed to this badinage with the Brownstouts. However, three at once were too much, and I, being a stranger, was inefficient and dummy.
Tom exhausted his stock of repartee; was “beat to a dead stand-still,” to borrow the language of the Ring and began, I thought, to look a little grave and cross. The ladies, consequently, changed the theme, and the conversation flowed on in a more equable and rational stream.
At length we arose and took our leave, Mrs. Brownstout begging me to come with Tom and pass the evening with them whenever I felt so disposed.