On the morning before that named for the dinner, G. and my brother encountered each other near M.'s bungalow, where my brother had just been. The conversation that ensued referred almost entirely to G.'s coming party. 'I've asked everyone,' said G., 'except V., who is on circuit, and A., who is on leave, and old B., who is sick of the gout.'
'Sick of the gout!' returned my brother. 'I should think so. Who wouldn't be that ever had a taste of it?'
'Come, come, Doctor; it's too early in the morning. A man should be scrupulous about taking drams in the morning.'
'Oh, G., G., how can you?—stale, flat, and unprofitable, and hypocritical besides, while pretending to give your friends advice. But tell me who you have got.'
'H. will come,' replied G.; 'but from the distance at which he resides, he stipulates that he is to go as soon as he has had coffee. The Zillah Judge will come too, though I suspect he obtained leave with great difficulty, as he adds, "You will not press me to stay later than half-past nine, as we always retire to rest at 10 p.m." Then Mitchel, our two selves, young B. and old B. (the Captain, I mean), will make up the party.'
'Won't you have the missionary, Mr. G.?'
'No, that I won't; he'd only be a wet blanket,' said G., 'and I don't want any wet blankets—in fact, I never liked them.'
'Poor fellow!' replied my brother. 'How I feel for him! How his bowels will yearn when he hears of a feed that he's not to have a share of!'
'Well,' returned G., 'his bowels may yearn, then; for he won't get a share of mine.'