TALBOYS.
My Air-girdle.
NORTH.
I insist upon you dropping it, Longman. It makes you reckless. I did not think you were such a selfish character.
TALBOYS.
Alas! in this world, how are our noblest intentions misunderstood! I put it on, sir, that, in case of a capsize, I might more buoyantly bear you ashore.
NORTH.
Forgive me, my friend. But—be seated. Our craft is but indifferently well adapted for the gallopade. Be seated, I beseech you! Or, if you will stand, do plant both feet—do not—do not alternate so—and above all, do not, I implore you—show off on one, as if you were composing and reciting verses.—There, down you are—and if there be not a hole in her bottom, Gutta Percha is safe against all the hidden rocks in Loch Awe.
TALBOYS.
Let me take the stroke oar.