Mrs. J. Lauk, John, how can you be so wulgar!  Who ever saw two rounds of beef, as you wanted to have?  Besides, I’m sure the gentlemen will excuse any little defishency, considering the short notice we have had, and that this is not an elaborate dinner.

Mr. Spiers. I’m sure, ma’m, there’s no de_fish_ency at all.  Indeed, I think there’s as much fish as would serve double the number—­and I’m sure you look as if you had your soup “on sale or return,” as we say in the magazine line.

Mr. J. Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers.  I owe you one.  Not bad soup though—­had it from Birch’s.  Let me send you some; and pray lay into it, or I shall think you don’t like it.  Mr. Happerley, let me send you some—­and, gentlemen, let me observe, once for all, that there’s every species of malt liquor under the side table.  Prime stout, from the Marquess Cornwallis, hard by.  Also ale, table, and what my friend Crane there calls lamen_table_—­he says, because it’s so werry small—­but, in truth, because I don’t buy it of him.  There’s all sorts of drench, in fact, except water—­thing I never touch—­rots one’s shoes, don’t know what it would do with one’s stomach if it was to get there.  Mr. Crane, you’re eating nothing.  I’m quite shocked to see you; you don’t surely live upon hair?  Do help yourself, or you’ll faint from werry famine.  Belinda, my love, does the Yorkshireman take care of you?  Who’s for some salmon?—­bought at Luckey’s, and there’s both Tallyho and Tantivy sarce to eat with it.  Somehow or other I always fancies I rides harder after eating these sarces with fish.  Mr. Happerley Nimrod, you are the greatest man at table, consequently I axes you to drink wine first, according to the book of etiquette—­help yourself, sir.  Some of Crane’s particklar, hot and strong, real stuff, none of your wan de bones (vin de beaume) or rot-gut French stuff—­hope you like it—­if you don’t, pray speak your mind freely, now that we have Crane among us.  Binjimin, get me some of that duck before Mr. Spiers, a leg and a wing, if you please, sir, and a bit of the breast.

Mr. Spiers. Certainly, sir, certainly.  Do you prefer a right or left wing, sir?

Mr. Jorrocks. Oh, either.  I suppose it’s all the same.

Mr. Spiers. Why no, sir, it’s not exactly all the same; for it happens there is only one remaining, therefore it must be the left one.

Mr. J. (chuckling).  Haw! haw! haw!  Mr. S——­, werry good that—­werry good indeed.  I owes you two.

“I’ll trouble you for a little, Mr. Spiers, if you please,” says Crane, handing his plate round the windmill.

“I’m sorry, sir, it is all gone,” replies Mr. Spiers, who had just filled Mr. Jorrocks’s plate; “there’s nothing left but the neck,” holding it up on the fork.

“Well, send it,” rejoins Mr. Crane; “neck or nothing, you know, Mr. Jorrocks, as we say with the Surrey.”