Rivers. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deaking, split me!
Brodie. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally welcome.
Rivers. Prettily put, sink me! (A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!)
Brodie. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d——d thing, the je ne sais quoi, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!)
Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin (this is passatively too much). What will you sip? Give it the hanar of a neam.
Brodie. By these most hanarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain (forcing him boisterously into a chair). I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.)
Moore (aside to Smith). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! It’ll be twopence and toddle with George Smith.
Moore. O, muck! Who’s afraid of him? (To Ainslie.) Hang on, Slinkie.
Hunt (who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard; aside). By Jingo!