“Fiddlestick's end!” says Doctor Larner; “don't be blushing and pretinding to ask questions; don't we know you, Bullwig? It's you yourself, you thief of the world: we smoked you from the very beginning.”
Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted them, and said,—“I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush is no other than Mr. Yellowplush: he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your last glass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and an ornament of my kitchen!”
“Gad!” says Doublejowl, “let's have him up.”
“Hear, hear!” says Bagwig.
“Ah, now,” says Larner, “your grace is not going to call up and talk to a footman, sure? Is it gintale?”
“To say the least of it,” says Bullwig, “the pwactice is iwwegular, and indecowous; and I weally don't see how the interview can be in any way pwofitable.”
But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, and everybody excep them was for having up poor me. The bell was wrung; butler came. “Send up Charles,” says master; and Charles, who was standing behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come in.
“Charles,” says master, “I have been telling these gentlemen who is the author of the 'Yellowplush Correspondence' in Fraser's Magazine.”
“It's the best magazine in Europe,” says the duke.
“And no mistake,” says my lord.