“If I had—stockwhip here—I'd make you—hic—skip! Whar's brandy?”
“Here, Mr. Richard.”
“Have some! Good brandy! Send for servantsh and have dance. D'you dance, Tomkins?”
“No, Mr. Richard.”
“Then you shall dance now, Tomkins. You'll dance upon nothing one day, Tomkins! Here! Halloo! Mary! Susan! Janet! William! Hey! Halloo!” And he began to shout and blaspheme.
“Don't you think it's time for bed, Mr. Richard?” one of the men ventured to suggest.
“No!” roared the ex-convict, emphatically, “I don't! I've gone to bed at daylight far too long. We'll have 'luminashon! I'm master here. Master everything. Richard 'Vine's my name. Isn't it, Tomkins, you villain?”
“Oh-h-h! Yes, Mr. Richard.”
“Course it is, and make you know it too! I'm no painter-picture, crockery chap. I'm genelman! Genelman seen the world! Knows what's what. There ain't much I ain't fly to. Wait till the old woman's dead, Tomkins, and you shall see!” More swearing, and awful threats of what the inebriate would do when he was in possession. “Bring up some brandy!” Crash goes the bottle in the fire-place. “Light up the droring-rooms; we'll have dance! I'm drunk! What's that? If you'd gone through what I have, you'd be glad to be drunk. I look a fool”—this to his image in another glass. “I ain't though, or I wouldn't be here. Curse you, you grinning idiot”—crash goes his fist through the mirror—“don't grin at me. Play up there! Where's old woman? Fetch her out and let's dance!”
“Lady Devine has gone to bed, Mr. Richard,” cried Tomkins, aghast, attempting to bar the passage to the upper regions.