Come, hang saving; get us up a ha'porth of whiskey,' said little Toole, gaily.
'Hallo, Mrs.Irons, Madam, will you do us the favour to make a bowl of punch as soon as may be ?' cried Devereux, over the banister.
'Come, Toole,' said Devereux, 'I'm very dismal.

Losses and crosses, and deuce knows what.

Whistle or talk, what you please, I'll listen; tell me anything; stories of horses, dogs, dice, snuff, women, cocks, parsons, wine--what you will.

Come, how's Sturk?
He's beaten poor Nutter, and won the race; though the stakes, after all, were scarce worth taking--and what's life without a guinea ?--he's grown, I'm told, so confoundedly poor, "quis pauper?
avarus." A worthy man was Sturk, and, in some respects, resembled the prophet, _Shylock_; but you know nothing of him--why the plague don't you read your Bible, Toole ?' 'Well,' said Toole, candidly, 'I don't know the Old Testament as well as the New; but certainly, whoever he's like, he's held out wonderfully.
'Tis nine weeks since he met that accident, and there he's still, above ground; but that's all--just above ground, you see.' 'And how's Cluffe ?' 'Pooh, Cluffe indeed! Nothing ever wrong with him but occasional over-eating.

Sir, you'd a laughed to-day had you seen him.