“No, your honor, not yet—some of us at least,” replied a shrewd-looking lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.
“Ha, Lanty—it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I suppose—where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?”
“Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?”
“Brandy and h—l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzle?”
“Why, she's just rinsing her mouth, sir, wid a drop of “—
“Of what, you devil's imp; but I know—she's drinking—she's drunk, you young candidate for perdition?”
“I'm not an ould one, sir, any how; as to Miss Fuzzle, sir, she bid me say, that she's doin' herself the pleasure of drinkin' your health”—
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if I were near her—that's all! drinking my health! She's tipsy, the she scoundrel, she never sends me that message unless when she's tipsy”—
“Not tipsy, your honor, only unwell—she's a little touched wid the falling sickness—she always takes it after rinsing her mouth, sir; for she's fond of a sweet breath, your honor.”
“Ah, she's a confounded blackguard—a living quicksand, and nothing else. Lanty, my lad, if the Mississippi was brandy grog, she'd dry the river—drinking at this hour!—well, never mind, I was drunk myself last night, and I'm half drunk yet. Here, you devil's tinder box, mix me a glass of brandy and water.”