So we separated. At nine every man of the party was in St Martin’s Lane, seated in the little back parlour; and Harrison was as good as his word, for he brought Harlow with him. He ordered a sumptuous supper of mutton kidneys, interspersed with sausages, and set to. At eleven o’clock precisely, the eye of Harlow brightened, and putting his pipe down, he commenced with a shrill voice—
“Humphries told me——”
“Ay,” said we all, with one accord, “here it is—now we shall have it—take care of it this time.”
“What do you mean?” said Humpy Harlow, performing that feat which by the illustrious Mr John Keeve is called “flaring up.”
“Nothing,” we replied, “nothing, but we are anxious to hear that story.”
“I understand you,” said our broken-backed friend. “I now recollect that I did tell it once or so before in your company, but I shall not be a butt any longer for you or anybody else.”
“Don’t be in a passion, Humpy,” said Jack Ginger.
“Sir,” replied Harlow, “I hate nicknames—it is a mark of a low mind to use them—and as I see I am brought here only to be insulted, I shall not trouble you any longer with my company.”
Saying this, the little man seized his hat and umbrella, and strode out of the room.
“His back is up,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, “and there’s no use of trying to get it down. I am sorry he is gone, because I should have made him pay for another round.”