“Press me, my dear Ralph!” exclaimed Peterkin hastily, fearing that he had hurt my feelings; “why, man, I do but jest with you—you are so horridly literal. I’m overjoyed to be pressed to go on the maddest wild-goose chase that ever was invented. My greatest delight would be to go gorilla-hunting down Fleet Street, if you were so disposed.—But to be serious, Jack, do you think we shall be in time for the elephant-hunt to-morrow?”
“Ay, in capital time, if you don’t knock up.”
“What! I knock up! I’ve a good mind to knock you down for suggesting such an egregious impossibility.”
“That’s an impossibility anyhow, Peterkin, because I’m down already,” said Jack, yawning lazily and stretching out his limbs in a more comfortable and dégagé manner.
Peterkin seemed to ponder as he smoked his pipe for some time in silence.
“Ralph,” said he, looking up suddenly, “I don’t feel a bit sleepy, and yet I’m tired enough.”
“You are smoking too much, perhaps,” I suggested.
“It’s not that,” cried Jack; “he has eaten too much supper.”
“Base insinuation!” retorted Peterkin.
“Then it must be the monkey. That’s it. Roast monkey does not agree with you.”