“Be off, Jerry Gallagher,” said Jack—“I give to you, your heirs and assigns, all that and those which remains in the pots of half-and-half—item for your own dinners what is left of the solids—and when you have pared the bones clean, you may give them to the poor. Charity covers a multitude of sins. Brush away like a shoeblack—and levant.”
“Why, thin, God bless your honour,” said Jerry Gallagher, “it’s a small liggacy he would have that would dippind for his daily bread for what is left behind any of ye in the way of the drink—and this blessed hour there’s not as much as would blind the left eye of a midge in one of them pots—and may it do you all good, if it ain’t the blessing of heaven to see you eating. By my sowl, he that has to pick a bone after you, won’t be much troubled with the mate. Howsomever—”
“No more prate,” said Jack Ginger. “Here’s twopence for you to buy some beer—but, no,” he continued, drawing his empty hand from that breeches-pocket into which he had most needlessly put it—“no,” said he, “Jerry—get it on credit wherever you can, and bid them score it to me.”
“If they will—” said Jerry.
“Shut the door,” said Jack Ginger, in a peremptory tone, and Jerry retreated.
“That Jerry,” said Jack, “is an uncommonly honest fellow, only he is the d——dest rogue in London. But all this is wasting time—and time is life. Dinner is over, and the business of the evening is about to begin. So, bumpers, gentlemen, and get rid of this wine as fast as we can. Mr Vice, look to your bottles.”
And on this, Jack Ginger gave a bumper toast.