"Well?"
"Vell, sir, my feyther stared at them murderous pistols, stared at
Black Dan, an' being the werry gamest an' bravest cove you ever see,
didn't 'esitate a second."
"Well," cried the fussy gentleman, "what did he do then?"
"Do, sir--v'y I'll tell you--my feyther--come down."
"Yes, yes," said the fussy gentleman, as Mottle-face paused.
"Go on, go on!"
"Go on v'ere, sir?"
"Go on with your story. What was the end of it?"
"V'y, that's the end on it."
"But it isn't; you haven't told us what happened after he got down.
What became of him after?"
"Took the 'Ring o' Bells,' out Islington vay, an' drank hisself to
death all quite nat'ral and reg'lar."
"But that's not the end of your story."
"It vere the end o' my feyther though--an' a werry good end it vere,
too."
Now here there ensued a silence, during which the fussy gentleman
stared fixedly at Mottle-face, who chirruped to the horses
solicitously, and turned a serene but owl-like eye up to the waning
moon.
"And pray," said the fussy gentleman at length, very red in the face,
and more indignant than ever, "pray what's all this to do with my
valise, I should like to know?"
"So should I," nodded Mottle-face--"ah, that I should.
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