Gentlemen, this is all Pintle and Sim, and what I say is, Here's the health of Pintle and Sim, and God bless 'em. The Firm, gentlemen."
The toast was received with all enthusiasm.
“Why, young John,” said Johnny. “Cheer up, lad, you're terribly down-hearted to-night!”
“What's it all about, John?” said Jemmy Feather. “Give it a name, young John.”
“I think Mr. John must be in love,” said Miss Round.
“Nonsense, I'm all right, father. Don't mind me. I'm a bit low to-night, but it's nothing to speak of.”
“Now, Mr. John,” said Miss Round, “I insist upon your cheering up. It's a very bad compliment you're paying me; I declare you haven't spoken a word to me all the evening.” And Miss Round assumed a becoming pout which had worked great things in bringing the young toast-master to the point.
The effect of the usually successful pout was quite lost upon Mr. John, who fidgetted upon his chair in an unsatisfactory and discontented way. Not so, however, upon the toast-master, who, remembering the effect the pout in question had had upon him in happier days, regarded young John with feelings of the bitterest hate. He was, of course, unable to convey any verbal expression of his sentiments on this point, so he contented himself with silently drinking innumerable ironical toasts, all of which professed to invoke blessings without number on the head of the young man.
A knock was heard at the door, and a drabby maid-servant put her head in.
"Mr. Pounce, sir, you're wanted."
