"V'y, that's the end on it."
"But it isn't; you haven't told us what happened after he got down.
What became of him after?"
"Took the 'Ring o' Bells,' out Islington vay, an' drank hisself to death all quite nat'ral and reg'lar."
"But that's not the end of your story."
"It vere the end o' my feyther though—an' a werry good end it vere, too."
Now here there ensued a silence, during which the fussy gentleman stared fixedly at Mottle-face, who chirruped to the horses solicitously, and turned a serene but owl-like eye up to the waning moon.
"And pray," said the fussy gentleman at length, very red in the face, and more indignant than ever, "pray what's all this to do with my valise, I should like to know?"
"So should I," nodded Mottle-face—"ah, that I should."
"You—you told me," spluttered the fussy gentleman, in sudden wrath, "that you were coming to my valise."
"An' so ve have," nodded Mottle-face, triumphantly. "Ve're at it now; ve've been a-coming to that theer blessed walise ever since you come aboard."