"You!" says I, "he couldn't help but pink you somewhere or other at the first pass—"
"Well, Raikes was a-sneering as I say," pursued Bentley, "when up comes our highwayman and coolly strips him to his very shirt, Jack—ties him to his horse, and parades him all through Tonbridge—rat me!—and as I tell you, the wind, Jack—'t was cursedly cold, and—and—oh! strike me purple!" Here Bentley choked again, and while I thumped his back, he and Jack rolled in their chairs, and shook the very casements with their laughter.
"His shirt?" gasped Jack at last, wiping his eyes.
"His shirt," groaned Bentley, wiping his.
"Lord!" cries Jack, "Lord! 'twill be the talk of the town," says he, after a while.
"To be sure it will," says Bentley, and hereupon they fell a-roaring with laughter again. For my part, what betwixt thumping Bentley's back and the memory of Christmas morning now so near, I was sober enough.
They were still howling with laughter, and Bentley's face had already assumed a bluish tinge, when the door opened and a servant appeared, who handed a letter to Jack. Still laughing, he took it and broke the seal; at sight of the first words, however, his face underwent a sudden change. "Is the messenger here?" says he, very sharp.
"No, Sir John."
"Humph!" says Jack, "you may go then;" and he began to read. But he had not read a dozen words when he broke out into his customary oath.
"May the devil anoint me! Did you ever hear the like of that, now?"