"No."
"Nor Dig, perhaps?"
"No, sir."
"Remarkable—hum!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head; "but I'm ready to lay you odds that he did speak of my friend Barry. I may say my bosom companion—a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir."
"Ronald Barrymaine," repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker's keen glance, none the less. "No, he did not."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.
"Why so?"
"Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir, was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go, sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for the Jews—curse 'em!"
"And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?"
At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom, and bowed.