B-lf-r. Well, I'm glad it's lunch-time anyhow, for I'm fairly baked.
Sm-th. Nip of Irish, B.?
B-lf-r. Irish be—proclaimed! Sick of the very name of Irish. Do let's forget it for awhile, and hand me the J. J., there's a good fellow.
S-l-sb-ry (musing). Humph! Pretty pair of Sportsmen! Empty rotundity, and linked languor long drawn out. Wonder what Dizzy would have thought of such a pair of guns, especially of "his successor." Tracy Tupman emulating Mr. Winkle.
Sm-th. Eh? What? Beg pardon, S-l-sb-ry, I'm not forty-winking.
S-l-sb-ry. Not at all, not at all. I was—ahem!—saying what a Winkle—ah—M-tth-ws is!
B-lf-r (disgustedly). Oh, M-tth-ws! Missed every bird he's tried at. Pity all burglars are not as bad shots as he. Couldn't hit a constable at ten yards.
S-l-sb-ry (drily). Not if he tried. I never feel safe at twenty. If he hasn't peppered us all round, it isn't his fault.
Sm-th. And—ahem—G-sch-n hasn't turned out quite the success we expected, eh? That last miss of his was rather a bad one.
S-l-sb-ry. Humph! perhaps. Still, I wish he'd brought one or two of his friends with him.