"What's on your mind, Mr. Chops?"
"They don't use me well. They ain't grateful to me. They puts me on the mantel-piece when I won't have in more Champagne-wine, and they locks me in the sideboard when I won't give up my property."
"Get rid of 'em, Mr. Chops."
"I can't. We're in society together, and what would society say?"
"Come out of society," says I.
"I can't. You don't know what you're talking about. When you have once got into society, you mustn't come out of it."
"Then, if you'll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops," was my remark, shaking my Ed grave, "I think it's a pity you ever went in."
Mr. Chops shook that deep Ed of his to a surprisin' extent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand, and with more wice than I thought were in him. Then he says:
"You're a good feller, but you don't understand. Good night, go long. Magsman, the little man will now walk three times around the Cairawan, and retire behind the curtain."
The last I see of him on that occasion was his tryin', on the extremest verge of insensibility, to climb up the stairs, one by one, with his hands and knees. They'd have been much too steep for him if he had been sober; but he wouldn't be helped.