“You honour me vastly by this condescension, sir; and if ever I compose another cotillon, or Mrs. Devallé presents me with an eighth pledge of our affection, your name shall certainly be made use of. Gratitude is implanted even in stocks and stones; and the acorn that is only half munched by swine, grows into an oak, and, centuries after, becomes a ship, in which our celebrated breed of pigs is carried to the four quarters of the world. Even my namesake Cæsar, the Roman, and Hannibal, the Carthaginian—”
“Exactly,—exactly so,” said Perry, turning on his heel and biting his lip, as the recollection of the trick which had been played upon him again flashed across his mind.
“I beg pardon,” said Cesar, following him; “I don't think you foresaw, precisely—”
“Well, what were you going to say?” inquired Charles, in a tone of impatience.
“I was about to propose, that we should drown all future animosity in a bumper;—that is, if you would honour so humble a member of society as Cosar Devallé, by ordering the liquor. Shall I execute your commands?”
“Dick, get some brandy:—I could drink a glass myself.”
“I'll step for a pint or so,” quoth Cæsar; “I am fond of motion: it exemplifies the living principle, and—”
“No more of your observations, but begone,” interrupted Charles. Devallé made a low bow, and immediately left the room. “The fellow's a fool,” continued Charles, as the Little Black Porter closed the door. “What say you, Dick, to all this?”
“Why, sir,” replied Dick, “I don't like to be over positive; but, to me, it looks rather like a pretty kettle of fish. Moreover, I'll lay a year's perquisites to half a pound, that Mr. Cæsar, the porter, is more rogue than ninny.”
“What do you mean? Why do you wink in that manner?”