“Ah?—take that then,” said Pierre, vacantly putting something into the porter’s hand.
“And what shall I do with this, sir?” said the porter, staring.
“Drink a health; but not mine; that were mockery!”
“With a key, sir? This is a key you gave me.”
“Ah!—well, you at least shall not have the thing that unlocks me. Give me the key, and take this.”
“Ay, ay!—here’s the chink! Thank’ee sir, thank’ee. This’ll drink. I aint called a porter for nothing; Stout’s the word; 2151 is my number; any jobs, call on me.”
“Do you ever cart a coffin, my man?” said Pierre.
“’Pon my soul!” cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, “if you aint writing an Inferno, then—but never mind. Porter! this gentleman is under medical treatment at present. You had better—ab’—you understand—’squatulate, porter! There, my boy, he is gone; I understand how to manage these fellows; there’s a trick in it, my boy—an off-handed sort of what d’ye call it?—you understand—the trick! the trick!—the whole world’s a trick. Know the trick of it, all’s right; don’t know, all’s wrong. Ha! ha!”
“The porter is gone then?” said Pierre, calmly. “Well, Mr. Millthorpe, you will have the goodness to follow him.”
“Rare joke! admirable!—Good morning, sir. Ha, ha!”