“Elihu,” says I, “fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”
Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume intimate relations.
“You done well, Dannie!” cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. “I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better.”
We were both mightily proud.
“Dannie,” says he, presently, with gleeful interest, “give un a good one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t’ show un what you can do.”
Enter Elihu Wall.
“What the devil d’ye mean?” says I, in wrath. “Eh? What the devil d’ye mean?”
“Yes, sir,” says Elihu Wall. “Sorry, sir. Very, sir.”
“Devil take your sorrow!” says I.