“We’ll devote the evening, brother,” exclaimed Wegg, “to prosecute our friendly move. And arterwards, crushing a flowing wine-cup—which I allude to brewing rum and water—we’ll pledge one another. For what says the poet?
‘And you needn’t Mr. Venus be your black bottle, For surely I’ll be mine, And we’ll take a glass with a slice of lemon in it to which you’re partial, For auld lang syne.’ ”
This flow of quotation and hospitality in Wegg indicated his observation of some little querulousness on the part of Venus.
“Why, as to the friendly move,” observed the last-named gentleman, rubbing his knees peevishly, “one of my objections to it is, that it don’t move.”
“Rome, brother,” returned Wegg: “a city which (it may not be generally known) originated in twins and a wolf; and ended in imperial marble: wasn’t built in a day.”
“Did I say it was?” asked Venus.
“No, you did not, brother. Well inquired.”
“But I do say,” proceeded Venus, “that I am taken from among my trophies of anatomy, am called upon to exchange my human warious for mere coal-ashes warious, and nothing comes of it. I think I must give up.”
“No, sir!” remonstrated Wegg, enthusiastically. “No, Sir!
‘Charge, Chester, charge, On, Mr. Venus, on!’
Never say die, sir! A man of your mark!”