Mr. J. Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers. I owe you one. Not bad soup though—had it from Birch's. Let me send you some; and pray lay into it, or I shall think you don't like it. Mr. Happerley, let me send you some—and, gentlemen, let me observe, once for all, that there's every species of malt liquor under the side table. Prime stout, from the Marquess Cornwallis, hard by. Also ale, table, and what my friend Crane there calls lamentable—he says, because it's so werry small—but, in truth, because I don't buy it of him. There's all sorts of drench, in fact, except water—thing I never touch—rots one's shoes, don't know what it would do with one's stomach if it was to get there. Mr. Crane, you're eating nothing. I'm quite shocked to see you; you don't surely live upon hair? Do help yourself, or you'll faint from werry famine. Belinda, my love, does the Yorkshireman take care of you? Who's for some salmon?—bought at Luckey's, and there's both Tallyho and Tantivy sarce to eat with it. Somehow or other I always fancies I rides harder after eating these sarces with fish. Mr. Happerley Nimrod, you are the greatest man at table, consequently I axes you to drink wine first, according to the book of etiquette—help yourself, sir. Some of Crane's particklar, hot and strong, real stuff, none of your wan de bones (vin de beaume) or rot-gut French stuff—hope you like it—if you don't, pray speak your mind freely, now that we have Crane among us. Binjimin, get me some of that duck before Mr. Spiers, a leg and a wing, if you please, sir, and a bit of the breast.
Mr. Spiers. Certainly, sir, certainly. Do you prefer a right or left wing, sir?
Mr. Jorrocks. Oh, either. I suppose it's all the same.
Mr. Spiers. Why no, sir, it's not exactly all the same; for it happens there is only one remaining, therefore it must be the left one.
Mr. J. (chuckling). Haw! haw! haw! Mr. S——, werry good that—werry good indeed. I owes you two.
"I'll trouble you for a little, Mr. Spiers, if you please," says Crane, handing his plate round the windmill.
"I'm sorry, sir, it is all gone," replies Mr. Spiers, who had just filled Mr. Jorrocks's plate; "there's nothing left but the neck," holding it up on the fork.
"Well, send it," rejoins Mr. Crane; "neck or nothing, you know, Mr. Jorrocks, as we say with the Surrey."
"Haw! haw! haw!" grunts Mr. Jorrocks, who is busy sucking a bone; "haw! hawl haw! werry good, Crane, werry good—owes you one. Now, gentlemen," added he, casting his eye up the table as he spoke, "let me adwise ye, before you attack the grouse, to take the hedge (edge) off your appetites, or else there won't be enough, and, you know, it does not do to eat the farmer after the gentlemen. Let's see, now—three and three are six, six brace among eight—oh dear, that's nothing like enough. I wish, Mrs. J——, you had followed my adwice, and roasted them all. And now, Binjimin, you're going to break the windmill with your clumsiness, you little dirty rascal! Why von't you let Batsay arrange the table? Thank you, Mr. Crane, for your assistance—your politeness, sir, exceeds your beauty." [A barrel organ strikes up before the window, and Jorrocks throws down his knife and fork in an agony.] "Oh dear, oh dear, there's that cursed horgan again. It's a regular annihilator. Binjimin, run and kick the fellow's werry soul out of him. There's no man suffers so much from music as I do. I wish I had a pocketful of sudden deaths, that I might throw one at every thief of a musicianer that comes up the street. I declare the scoundrel has set all my teeth on edge. Mr. Nimrod, pray take another glass of wine after your roast beef.—Well, with Mrs. J—— if you choose, but I'll join you—always says that you are the werry cleverest man of the day—read all your writings—anny-tommy (anatomy) of gaming, and all. Am a hauthor myself, you know—once set to, to write a werry long and elaborate harticle on scent, but after cudgelling my brains, and turning the thing over and over again in my mind, all that I could brew on the subject was, that scent was a werry rum thing; nothing rummer than scent, except a woman."
"Pray," cried Mrs. Jorrocks, her eyes starting as she spoke, "don't let us have any of your low-lifed stable conversation here—you think to show off before the ladies," added she, "and flatter yourself you talk about what we don't understand. Now, I'll be bound to say, with all your fine sporting hinformation, you carn't tell me whether a mule brays or neighs!"