"Sir," said he, "for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a
Smivvle, once given, is given for good."
As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which
Barnabas observed was none too clean.
"The hand of a Smivvle, sir," pursued that gentleman, "the hand of a Smivvle is never withdrawn either on account of adversity, plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews—dammem! As for my friend Barrymaine; but, perhaps, you are acquainted with him, sir."
"No," answered Barnabas.
"Ah! a noble fellow, sir! Heroic youth, blood, birth, and breeding to his finger-tips, sir. But he is, above all else, a brother to a—a sister, sir. Ah! what a creature! Fair, sir? fair as the immortal Helena! Proud, sir? proud as an arch-duchess! Handsome, sir? handsome, sir, as—as—oh, dammit, words fail me; but go, sir, go and ransack Olympus, and you couldn't match her, 'pon my soul! Diana, sir? Diana was a frump! Venus? Venus was a dowdy hoyden, by George! and as for the ox-eyed Juno, she was a positive cow to this young beauty! And then—her heart, sir!"
"Well, what of it?" inquired Barnabas, rather sharply.
"Utterly devoted—beats only for my friend—"
"You mean her brother?"
"I mean her brother, yes, sir; though I have heard a rumor that
Sir Mortimer Carnaby—"
"Pooh!" said Barnabas.