"Didn't happen to mention my name, did he--Smivvle, sir?"
"No."
"Nor Dig, perhaps?"
"No, sir."
"Remarkable--hum!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head;
"but I'm ready to lay you odds that he _did_ speak of my friend Barry.
I may say my bosom companion--a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir."
"Ronald Barrymaine," repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his
pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker's keen glance,
none the less. "No, he did not."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.
"Why so?"
"Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his
Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir,
was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go,
sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for
the Jews--curse 'em!"
"And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?"
At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom,
and bowed.
"Sir," said he, "for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a
Smivvle, once given, is given for good."
As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which
Barnabas observed was none too clean.
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