'Thank God!' said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy
into the unwonted formality of grace. 'Now I'm going to take this chair
with my back to the fire--there's been a strong frost these two last
nights, and I can't get it out of my bones; the celery will be just the
ticket--I'm going to sit here, and you are going to stand there, Morris
Finsbury, and play butler.'
'But, Johnny, I'm so hungry myself,' pleaded Morris.
'You can have what I leave,' said Vance. 'You're just beginning to
pay your score, my daisy; I owe you one-pound-ten; don't you rouse the
British lion!' There was something indescribably menacing in the face
and voice of the Great Vance as he uttered these words, at which the
soul of Morris withered. 'There!' resumed the feaster, 'give us a glass
of the fizz to start with. Gravy soup! And I thought I didn't like gravy
soup! Do you know how I got here?' he asked, with another explosion of
wrath.
'No, Johnny; how could I?' said the obsequious Morris.
'I walked on my ten toes!' cried John; 'tramped the whole way from
Browndean; and begged! I would like to see you beg.
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