“You shall have it.”

“Fifteen shillings⁠—Threepenn’orths Rum,” said Mr. Dolls, making an attempt to stiffen himself.

“You shall have it. Stop at that. How will you get the direction you talk of?”

“I am er man,” said Mr. Dolls, with majesty, “er get it, sir.”

“How will you get it, I ask you?”

“I am ill-used vidual,” said Mr. Dolls. “Blown up morning t’night. Called names. She makes mint money, sir, and never stands threepenn’orth rum.”

“Get on,” rejoined Eugene, tapping his palsied head with the fire-shovel, as it sank on his breast. “What comes next?”