“Be a Member of that Society,” said the passenger.
“What shall I get by it?” asked the driver.
“Brotherhood,” returned the passenger, in a ferocious voice.
“Thankee,” said the driver, very deliberately, as he got down; “my mother was contented with myself, and so am I. I don’t want no brothers.”
“But you must have them,” replied the passenger, also descending, “whether you like it or not. I am your brother.”
“I say!” expostulated the driver, becoming more chafed in temper, “not too fur! The worm will , when—”
But here, Mr. Crisparkle interposed, remonstrating aside, in a friendly voice: “Joe, Joe, Joe! Don’t forget yourself, Joe, my good fellow!” and then, when Joe peaceably touched his hat, accosting the passenger with: “ Mr. Honeythunder?”
“That is my name, sir.”
“My name is Crisparkle.”
“Reverend Mr. Septimus? Glad to see you, sir. Neville and Helena are inside. Having a little succumbed of late, under the pressure of my public labours, I thought I would take a mouthful of fresh air, and come down with them, and return at night. So you are the Reverend Mr. Septimus, are you?” surveying him on the whole with disappointment, and twisting a double eyeglass by its ribbon, as if he were roasting it, but not otherwise using it. “Hah! I expected to see you older, sir.”
“I hope you will,” was the good-humoured reply.
“Eh?” demanded Mr. Honeythunder.