“Just like a great gal,” added Mullins.
“Mildman was exceedingly angry about it, I can tell you,” continued Cumberland, “and desired me to speak seriously to you on the subject; such abominable idleness is not to be tolerated.”
“It was not idleness,” answered I, warmly; “you all know very well, why I could not come down, and I don't think it was at all right or kind of you to play me such a trick.”
“Eh—now don't say that—you will hurt my feelings; I declare it is quite affecting,” said Coleman, wiping his eyes with Mullins's handkerchief, of which he had just picked his pocket.
"I'd have given five pounds to have seen old Sam's phiz, when he was trying to make out what ailed young stupid here, whether he was really ill, or only shamming,” said Lawless; “depend upon it, he thinks it was all pretence, and he can't bear anything of that sort; that was why he began spinning him that long yarn about 'meriting his approbation by upright and straightforward conduct,' this morning. I saw what the old boy was aiming at in a minute; there's nothing puts him out so much as being deceived.”
“Won't he set him all the hard lines to construe, that's all!” said Mullins.
“It will be 'hard lines' upon him if he does,” observed Coleman.
“Hold your tongue, Freddy! your puns are enough to make one ill,” said Cumberland.
“Well, I don't know whether you are going to stand here all day baiting your pinafore, Cumberland?” interrupted Lawless; “I'm not, for I've got a horse waiting for me down at Snaffles's, and I am going to ride over to Hookley; there's a pigeon-match coming off to-day between Clayton, of the Lancers—(he was just above me at Eton, you know)—and Tom Horton, who won the great match at Pinchley, and I have backed Clayton pretty heavily—shall you come?”
“No,” replied Cumberland, “no, I am going down to F———Street.”