"Accordin' to your own showin', my wenerable friend, you must ha' lived uppards o' two hundred and seventy year," said Ginger, assuming a consequential manner. "Now, doorin' all that time, have you never felt inclined to kick the bucket?"
"Not the least," replied Old Parr. "My bodily health has been excellent. But, as I have just said, my intellects are a little impaired."
"Not a little, I should think," replied Ginger, hemming significantly. "I don't know vether you're a deceivin' of us or yourself, my wenerable; but von thing's quite clear—you can't have lived all that time. It's not in nater."
"Very well, then—I haven't," said Old Parr.
And he finished his rum-and-water, and set down the glass, which was instantly filled again by the drowsy youth.
"You've seen some picters o' Old Lunnon, and they've haanted you in your dreams, till you've begun to fancy you lived in those times," said Ginger.
"Very likely," replied Old Parr—"very likely."
There was something, however, in his manner calculated to pique the dog-fancier's curiosity.
"How comes it," he said, stretching out his legs, and arranging his neckcloth,—"how comes it, if you've lived so long, that you ain't higher up in the stirrups—better off, as folks say?"
The dwarf made no reply, but covering his face with his hands, seemed a prey to deep emotion. After a few moments' pause, Ginger repeated the question.