“Well, I’ve not had my toast yet,” said Jerry, when the applause at the end of the song had discontinued:— “Here’s to the shady side of Pall-mall.”
“And I suppose,” said Stewart, giving Prose a slap on the back, which took his breath away, “that you are thinking of Wapping, blow you.”
“I think I have had enough of whopping since I’ve been in this ship,” answered Prose.
“Why, Prose, you’re quite brilliant, I do declare,” observed Jerry. “Like a flint, you only require a blow from Stewart’s iron fist to emit sparks. Try him again, Stewart. He’s like one of the dancing dervishes, in the Arabian Nights: you must thrash him to get a few farthings of wit out of him.”
“I do wish that you would keep your advice to yourself, Jerry.”
“My dear Prose, it’s all for the honour of Middlesex that I wish you to shine. I’m convinced that there’s a great deal of wit in that head of yours; but it’s confined, like the kernel in a nut: there’s no obtaining it without breaking the shell. Try him again, Stewart.”
“Come, Prose, I’ll take your part, and try his own receipt upon himself. I’ll thrash him till he says something witty.”
“I do like that, amazingly,” replied Jerry. “Why, if I do say a good thing, you’ll never find out. I shall be thrashed to all eternity. Besides, I’m at too great a distance from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I’m like some cows; I don’t give down my milk without the calf is alongside of me. Now, if you were on this side of the table—”