“He does want more than his fare shilling,” reiterated the Frenchman.
“Coachman! what the devil are we waiting here for?” shouted a stentorian voice from the rear of the stage.
“Bless me, John, are we to stay here all day?” cried a shrill voice from the stage’s interior.
“If you don’t get up shortly I shall get down,” bellowed a voice from the box.
At this crisis the English usher drew his fellow-tutor aside, and whispered something in his ear that made him go through the old manual exercise. He slapped his pantaloons—flapped his coat tails—and felt about his bosom—“I haven’t got one,” said he, and with a shake of the head and a hurried bow, he set off at the pace of a twopenny postman.
“I a’n’t going to stand here all day,” said the coachman, getting out of all reasonable patience.
“You’re an infernal scoundrelly villain,” said Mr. Barber, getting out of all classical English.
“You are a—what Mr. Barber says,” said the Foreigner.
“Thank God and his goodness,” ejaculated the housemaid, “here comes the Doctor;” and the portly figure of the pedagogue himself came striding pompously down the gravel-walk. He had two thick lips and a double chin, which all began wagging together.
“Well, well; what’s all this argumentative elocution? I command taciturnity!”