“What door?” asked the captain.
“O, a house I know of,” returned Herrick.
“Bet it was a public-house!” cried the clerk,—only these were not his words. “And w’y didn’t you take the carpet there instead of trundling in a growler?”
“I didn’t want to startle a quiet street,” said the narrator. “Bad form. And besides, it was a hansom.”
“Well, and what did you do next?” inquired the captain.
“O, I went in,” said Herrick.
“The old folks?” asked the captain.
“That’s about it,” said the other, chewing a grass.
“Well, I think you are about the poorest ‘and at a yarn!” cried the clerk. “Crikey, it’s like ‘Ministering Children!’ I can tell you there would be more beer and skittles about my little jaunt. I would go and have a B.-and-S. for luck. Then I would get a big ulster with astrakhan fur, and take my cane and do the la-de-da down Piccadilly. Then I would go to a slap-up restaurant, and have green peas, and a bottle of fizz, and a chump chop—O! and I forgot, I’d ’ave some devilled whitebait first—and green gooseberry tart, and ’ot coffee, and some of that form of vice in big bottles with a seal—Benedictine—that’s the bloomin’ nyme! Then I’d drop into a theatre, and pal on with some chappies, and do the dancing rooms and bars, and that, and wouldn’t go ’ome till morning, till daylight doth appear. And the next day I’d have water-cresses, ’am, muffin, and fresh butter; wouldn’t I just, O my!”
The clerk was interrupted by a fresh attack of coughing.