My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber:
A noggin of lightning will slacken our glib;
So pass round the lush, and let none nap the bib.
"Brayvo, Jovial Jen!" shouted the inmates of the boozing-ken parlour.
"You're the prince of good fellers at a spree," said the Knacker: "and I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin and two outs, in spite o' what old Swiggs said of the lush."
The promised treat was called, paid for, and disposed of.
Scarcely had the applause, which greeted this song, terminated, when the door opened, and Lafleur, Mr. Greenwood's French valet, entered the room.
He was disguised in a large rough coat and slouched hat; but the Buffer immediately recognised his countenance, and hurried to meet him.
"You're late," said the Buffer, in a low tone.
"Yes—I could not come before," answered the valet. "But I knew that you would wait for me, as I told you yesterday that the business was important."