"Why, what's to do?" says I.
"Do?" says he, rapping out three oaths in quick succession—"do?—the devil and all's to do!"
"Make it a hundred?" says Bentley aside.
"Done!" says I.
"To think," groans Jack, blowing out his cheeks and striking himself a violent blow in the chest, "to think of a pale-faced, pranked-out, spindle-shanked, mealy-mouthed popinjay like him!"
"Him?" says I, questioningly.
"Aye—him!" snaps Jack, with another oath.
"Make it a hundred and fifty, Bentley?" says I softly.
"Agreed!" says Bentley.
"To think," says Jack again, "of a prancing puppy-dog, a walking clothes-pole like him—and she loves him, sir!"