“To keep up his position in the world, Mr. McAlnwick. ’Tis a big responsibility, ye see. His youngster will now go to a—a scholastic academy while mine remain on the rates.”
“How are they, Mr. Honna?”
“Fine, Mr. McAlnwick, fine! Jacko passed I don’t know how many exams., and he’s teaching the curate to play the organ. Hallo!”
There is a knock at the door, and I rise to lift the hook which holds it. A stout man with a short moustache and a double chin—Tenniel’s Bismarck to the life—touches his cap. It is the night watchman.
“Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Honna, but I don’t feel well, sir, and I wanted to know, sir, if you’d mind my goin’ to get a drop o’ brandy, sir?”
“Away ye go, then.”
“Thank you, sir. Shan’t be long, sir. Only——”
“Have ye any money?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Thank you all the same, sir.”