"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob."
"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query.
"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper—he was not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl—"take this fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of butter—and Harvey's sauce—and—where do you keep the pickled mushrooms, Leicester? here they are—make a little gravy; and here, Bob—it's a cold night—here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr Leicester's health, and vanish."
Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, and departed.
"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me—what is become of Hurst? how didn't you bring him home?"
"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs—"no whisky punch?"
"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very good. But how didn't he come home with you?"
"Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically.
"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come now?" rejoined Horace.
"How came you to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, with some ladies—and we came away before it was over—so I sent up to tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him; and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down stairs."