His master gave him his keys, and despatched him into the town to purchase a knapsack or bag for the outfit of a jolly beggar.

The prospect delighted Lord Fleetwood.

He sang notes from the deep chest, flaunting like an opera brigand, and contemplating his wretched satellite's indecision with brimming amusement.
'Remember, we fight for our money.

I carry mine,' he said to Woodseer.
'Wouldn't it be expedient, Fleetwood...' Sir Meeson suggested a treasurer in the person of himself.
'Not a florin, Corby! I should find it all gambled away at Baden.' 'But I am not Abrane, I'm not Abrane! I never play, I have no mania, none.

It would be prudent, Fleetwood.' 'The slightest bulging of a pocket would show on you, Corby; and they would be at you, they would fall on you and pluck you to have another fling.