“Fellow!” cried the irate footman, with a pompous air—­“Master desires as you’ll go on.”

“Werry well”—­replied the other, touching his hat, while the domestic waddled back, and closed the door, pluming himself upon having settled the musician; but he had no sooner vanished, than the strain was taken up again more uproariously than ever.

Out he rushed again in a twinkling—­

“Fellow!  I say—­man! vot do you mean?”

“Vy, now didn’t you tell me to go on?”

“I mean’t go off.”

“Then vy don’t you speak plain hinglish,” said the clarionist; “but, I say, lug out t’other browns, or I shall say vot the flute said ven his master said as how he’d play a tune on him.”

“Vot vos that?”

“Vy, he’d be blow’d if he would!”

“You’re a owdacious fellow.”

“Tip!” was the laconic answer, accompanied by an expressive twiddling of the fingers.

“Vell, there then,” answered the footman, reluctantly giving him the price of his silence.

“Thank’ye,” said the musician, “and in time to come, old fellow, never do nothin’ by halves—­’cept it’s a calve’s head!”

SCENE XXIII.

Oh! lor, here’s a norrid thing.’

The Confessions of a Sportsman.

“Vell, for three year, as sure as the Septembers comes, I takes the field, but somehow or another I never takes nothin’ else!  My gun’s a good ’un and no mistake!—­Percussions and the best Dartford, and all that too.  My haim ain’t amiss neither; so there’s a fault somewhere, that’s certain.  The first time as I hentered on the inwigorating and manly sport, I valks my werry legs off, and sees nothin’ but crows and that ‘ere sort o’ small game.

“I vos so aggrawated, that at last I lets fly at ’em in werry spite, jist as they vos a sendin’ of their bills into an orse for a dinner.

“Bang! goes the piece;—­caw! caw! goes the birds; and I dessay I did for some on ’em, but I don’t know, for somehow I vos in sich a preshus hurry to bag my game, that I jumps clean over vun bank, and by goles! plump into a ditch on t’other side, up to my werry neck!

“The mud stuck to me like vax; and findin’ it all over vith me, and no chance o’ breaking a cover o’ this sort, I dawdled about ’till dusk, and vos werry glad to crawl home and jump into bed.  I vos so ‘put out’ that I stayed at home the rest o’ that season.

“The second year come, and my hardor vos agin inflamed.  ’Cotch me a-shootin’ at crows,’ says I.—­Vell, avay I goes a-vhistling to myself, ven presently I see a solentary bird on the wing; ’a pariwidge, by jingo!’ says I—­I cocks—­presents, and hits it!  Hooray! down it tumbles, and afore I could load and prime agin, a whole lot o’ ’em comes out from among the trees.  ‘Here’s luck’ says I; and jist shouldered my piece, ven I gets sich a vop behind as sent me at full length.