“Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those laughs—to yourself?”
“You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming cups.”
“Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows. Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,
When its sparkling bubbles rise,
Call it divine—divine,
For God’s a dainty prize.
“Hurrah!”
“By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”
“D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master G—Gray.”