“Haw! haw! haw!” grunts Mr. Jorrocks, who is busy sucking a bone; “haw! hawl haw! werry good, Crane, werry good—­owes you one.  Now, gentlemen,” added he, casting his eye up the table as he spoke, “let me adwise ye, before you attack the grouse, to take the hedge (edge) off your appetites, or else there won’t be enough, and, you know, it does not do to eat the farmer after the gentlemen.  Let’s see, now—­three and three are six, six brace among eight—­oh dear, that’s nothing like enough.  I wish, Mrs. J——­, you had followed my adwice, and roasted them all.  And now, Binjimin, you’re going to break the windmill with your clumsiness, you little dirty rascal!  Why von’t you let Batsay arrange the table?  Thank you, Mr. Crane, for your assistance—­your politeness, sir, exceeds your beauty.” [A barrel organ strikes up before the window, and Jorrocks throws down his knife and fork in an agony.] “Oh dear, oh dear, there’s that cursed horgan again.  It’s a regular annihilator.  Binjimin, run and kick the fellow’s werry soul out of him.  There’s no man suffers so much from music as I do.  I wish I had a pocketful of sudden deaths, that I might throw one at every thief of a musicianer that comes up the street.  I declare the scoundrel has set all my teeth on edge.  Mr. Nimrod, pray take another glass of wine after your roast beef.—­Well, with Mrs. J——­ if you choose, but I’ll join you—­always says that you are the werry cleverest man of the day—­read all your writings—­anny-tommy (anatomy) of gaming, and all.  Am a hauthor myself, you know—­once set to, to write a werry long and elaborate harticle on scent, but after cudgelling my brains, and turning the thing over and over again in my mind, all that I could brew on the subject was, that scent was a werry rum thing; nothing rummer than scent, except a woman.”

“Pray,” cried Mrs. Jorrocks, her eyes starting as she spoke, “don’t let us have any of your low-lifed stable conversation here—­you think to show off before the ladies,” added she, “and flatter yourself you talk about what we don’t understand.  Now, I’ll be bound to say, with all your fine sporting hinformation, you carn’t tell me whether a mule brays or neighs!”

“Vether a mule brays or neighs?” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, considering.  “I’ll lay I can!”

“Which, then?” inquired Mrs. Jorrocks.

“Vy, I should say it brayed.”

“Mule bray!” cried Mrs. Jorrocks, clapping her hands with delight, “there’s a cockney blockhead for you!  It brays, does it?”

Mr. Jorrocks. I meant to say, neighed.

“Ho! ho! ho!” grinned Mrs. J——­, “neighs, does it?  You are a nice man for a fox-’unter—­a mule neighs—­thought I’d catch you some of these odd days with your wain conceit.”

“Vy, what does it do then?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, his choler rising as he spoke.  “I hopes, at all ewents, he don’t make the ’orrible noise you do.”

“Why, it screams, you great hass!” rejoined his loving spouse.