“Your conjecture,” replied Ransey, mimicking the flunkey’s tone and manner, “is about as neah wight as conjectures gener’ly aw. What may be the naychure of your business?”
“Aw! An’ may I enquiah if you are the—the—the waggamuffin who saw Miss Scwagley in the wood yestah-day?”
“I’m the young gentleman” said Ransey, hitching up his suspender, “who had the honah of ’alf an hour’s convehsation with the lady. I am Ransey Tansey, Esq., eldest and only son of Captain Tansey of the Mewwy Maiden. And,” he added emphatically, “this is my dog Bob.”
Bob uttered a low, ominous growl, and walked round behind the flunkey on a tour of inspection.
The only comfort the flunkey had at that moment arose from the fact that his calves were stuffed with hay.
“Aw! Beautiful animal, to be shuah. May I ask if this is the doag that neahly killed the postman fellah?”
“That’s the doag,” replied Ransey, “who would have killed the postman fellah dead out, if I had tipped him the wink.”
“Aw! Well, my business is vewy bwief. Heah is a pawcel from Miss Scwagley, of which she begs your acceptance.”
“Ah, thank you. Dee—lighted. Pray walk in. Sorry my butler is out at pwesent. But what will you dwink—sherry, port, champagne—wum? Can highly wecommend the wum.”
“Oh, thanks. Then I’ll have just a spot of wum.”