Of a Meeting near Fulham
think shame to live so maudlin as yourself, and you with the makings of a man in you!”
“I must apologise,” he says politely, “for my seeming discourtesy, for the feast is yours. And I have no doubt you are right as to the quality, but I fear me that my taste has been distorted by the stuff {SIC|}} off upon me by my cousin in France.”
“Maybe he is in the trade?” I inquired.
“Oh,” says he, smiling, “a good many hogs-heads pass through his fingers in the year.”
“Ah!” says I with a wink, “and I misdoubt if it pays a farthing to His Majesty.”
“You are right,” said he, with a laugh, “But in truth I have no grudge against His Majesty, so be that I pay nothing.”
“You say well,” says I. “He’s not a bad sort, Old Rowley, but a lazy chicken-spirited dog. ’Twould do him good were someone to fetch him a toe in the hinder-parts upon occasion.”
“Ah!” says he, contemplating my boots with some interest, and then meeting my eyes, “Is he worth it?” he asked smiling.
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