The things we do!

Frederick."
If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself appears
in great wrath dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the lower
floor; and loosely enveloped in a ragged and flowing robe de chambre. In
this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman's apartment, where
that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel or a
newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke it, and
warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence keeps
his sherry, and help himself to a glass.
"Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiae," he will say; "here's towards you,
my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala bottled three months after
date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen."
"Indeed, indeed it's not" (and now we are coming to an idea of the
skeleton in poor Honeyman's closet--not that this huge handsome jolly
Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick weighs fourteen
stone). "Indeed, indeed it isn't, Fred, I'm sure," sighs the other.


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