“Honour, Mr Bruce.”
“Honour, Mr Pitt.”
“Ten per cent, Massa Bruce,” continued Billy, grinning.
“Ten per cent is the bargain.”
“I go see.”
Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.
“I do—really—think—upon—my—word—that that—black—scoundrel—would—sell—his—own—mother—for—a—stiff—glass—of—grog,” observed a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words, which, “like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along.”
“The lights, gentlemen, if you please,” resumed the master-at-arms, putting his head again into the door.
“Another commission,” said Jerry: “a tax upon light. Billy Pitt has the best right to it.”
A second glass of grog was poured out, and the bribe disappeared down Mr Byfield’s gullet.