"Provide my breeches!" says Ned coarsely, and swept up his money.
"Where's that damned rum?"
"You may take it in the tap." Mr. Waverton rose. "Nay, she'll bring it.
Nay, but, Ned—how did he take it?"
"Rot you, how would you take an iron in your gizzard?"
"He said nothing?"
"Now, stap me, do you think we waited for him to say his prayers?"
"Prayers!" says Mr. Waverton grandly, "They would little avail him."
"Well now, burn me, you're a saint yourself, ain't you?"
The rum arrived, and the servant, with frightened eyes upon the bedraggled Ned, went stumbling out of the room again. "You are impertinent, sirrah," says Mr. Waverton. "The fellow well deserved his end. I may tell you that I was advised to deal with him thus privately by a noble lord in high place."
"Then it's worth more than a hundred megs."
"You have your pay, I believe. I am satisfied with you."