And the last lingering carriage no longer stops the way.
MR. BULL'S GLASS OF WATER.
Mr. John Bull, suddenly impressed with the excellence of water, demanded that his town mansion should forthwith be supplied.
"Bless your soul, Sir," cried nine of his servants, "the house has water enough, and very good water, brought twice a week."
"Bring me a glass of it," said Bull, and while they were fetching the glass (for John's servants are the dreariest dawdles on the face of the earth, and are as long opening a door, cleaning a passage, or doing any little job, except a money job, as the servants of Monsieur le Nez, over the way, are in throwing his whole house out of windows), Mr. Bull took up a Blue Book.
"Colourless, transparent, inodorous, and tasteless; such are the conditions of purity in water," read John. "O, here you are at last, you lazy rascal; give me the glass. What do you call this stuff, you scoundrel—pea-soup?"
"Capital water, Sir, stunning tipple, sir," said the fellow audaciously; "your steward pays me a shilling a pint for all I bring in."
"Does he!" said John, glancing across the room, to be sure that his stick was in its corner. "Where do you fetch this stuff from, tell me that?"