The Mulligan and Mr. Perkins.

It was too true. I had taken him away after supper (he ran after Miss Little’s carriage, who was dying in love with him as he fancied), but the brute had come back again. The doctors of divinity were putting up their condiments: everybody was gone; but the abominable Mulligan sat swinging his legs at the lonely supper-table!

Perkins was opposite, gasping at him.

The Mulligan. — I tell ye, ye are the butler, ye big fat man. Go get me some more champagne: it’s good at this house.

Mr. Perkins (with dignity). — It IS good at this house; but —

The Mulligan. — Bht hwhat, ye goggling, bow-windowed jackass? Go get the wine, and we’ll dthrink it together, my old buck.

Mr. Perkins. — My name, sir, is PERKINS.

The Mulligan. — Well, that rhymes with jerkins, my man of firkins; so don’t let us have any more shirkings and lurkings, Mr. Perkins.

Mr. Perkins (with apoplectic energy). — Sir, I am the master of this house; and I order you to quit it. I’ll not be insulted, sir. I’ll send for a policeman, sir. What do you mean, Mr. Titmarsh, sir, by bringing this — this beast into my house, sir?

At this, with a scream ............