You go over to the table, turn your back, and mix me a grog; that's a fair division of labour.' About ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.
'There,' observed Michael, 'that's more homelike.

You can turn now, my pallid Pitman.

Is this the grog ?' he ran on.

'Heaven forgive you, it's a lemonade.' 'But, O, Finsbury, what are we to do with it ?' walled the artist, laying a clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.
'Do with it ?' repeated Michael.

'Bury it in one of your flowerbeds, and erect one of your own statues for a monument.