Sir P. (recklessly). It is useless to appeal to me, child. I have enough to do to look after myself—now!
[Enter Spiker, indignant.
Spiker. Pretty treatment for a gentleman, this! Look here, Poshbury, this young lady has choked me with a cushion, and then pitched me down the front steps—I might have broken my neck!
Sir P. It was an oversight which I lament, but for which I must decline to be answerable. You must settle your differences with her.
Spiker. And you, too, old horse! You had a hand in this, I know, and I'll pay you out for it now. My life ain't safe if I marry a girl like that, so I've made up my mind to split, and be done with it!
Sir P. (contemptuously). If you don't, Blethers will. So do your worst, you hound!
Spiker. Very well, then; I will. (To the rest.) I denounce this man for travelling with a half-ticket from Edgware Road to Baker Street on his thirteenth birthday, the 31st of March, twenty-seven years ago this very day. [Sensation.
Blethers. Hear me; it was not his thirteenth birthday! Sir Poshbury's birthday falls on the 1st of April—to-morrow! I was sent to register the birth, and, by a blunder, which I have repented bitterly ever since, unfortunately gave the wrong date. Till this moment I have never had the manliness or sincerity to confess my error, for fear of losing my situation.
Sir P. (to Spiker). Do you hear, you paltry knave? I was not thirteen. Consequently, I was under age, and the Bye-laws are still unbroken. Your hold over me is gone—gone for ever!
Spiker. H'm—Spiker spiked this time!