Making a dignified attempt to gather himself together, but, as it were, dropping half a dozen pieces of himself while he tried in vain to pick up one, Mr. Dolls, swaying his head from side to side, regarded his questioner with what he supposed to be a haughty smile and a scornful glance.

“She looks upon me as mere child, sir. I am not mere child, sir. Man. Man talent. Lerrers pass betwixt ’em. Postman lerrers. Easy for man talent er get drection, as get his own drection.”

“Get it then,” said Eugene; adding very heartily under his breath, “⁠—You brute! Get it, and bring it here to me, and earn the money for sixty threepenn’orths of rum, and drink them all, one a top of another, and drink yourself dead with all possible expedition.” The latter clauses of these special instructions he addressed to the fire, as he gave it back the ashes he had taken from it, and replaced the shovel.