“And do you recollect the rum and milk?”
Mr. Bumpkin remembered it.
“Well, I believe that rum and milk was the luckiest investment you ever made. Hallo! there’s the bell—hush, mither woy!”
“Dang thee!” said Bumpkin, “thee’s got un;” and he followed the youthful clerk into Mr. Prigg’s room.
There sat that distinguished lawyer with his respectable head, in his easy chair, much worn, both himself and the chair, by constant use. There sat the good creature ready to offer himself up on the altar of Benevolence for the good of the first comer. His collar was still unruffled, so was his temper, notwithstanding the severe strain of the county families. There was his clear complexion indicating the continued health resulting from a well-spent life. His almost angelic features were beautiful rather in the amiability of their expression than in their loveliness of form. Anyone looking at him for the first time must exclaim, “Dear me, what a nice man!”
“Well, Mr. Bumpkin,” said he, extending his left hand lazily as though it were the last effort of exhausted humanity, “how are we now?”—always identifying himself with Bumpkin, as though he should say “We are in the same boat, brother; come what may, we sink or swim together—how are we now?”
“Bean’t wery well,” answered Mr. Bumpkin, “I can tell ’ee.”
“What’s the matter? dear me, why, what’s the matter? We must be cool, you know. Nothing like coolness, if we are to win our battle.”
“Lookee ’ere,” said Bumpkin; “lookee ’ere, sir; I bin here dordlin’ about off an’ on six weeks, and this ’ere dam trial—”
“Sh—sh!” remonstrated Mr. Prigg with the softest voice, and just lifting his left hand on a level with his forehead. “Let us learn resignation, good Mr. Bumpkin. Let us learn it at the feet of disappointment and losses and crosses.”