The things we do!

"Butts, old boy, he'll paint you for nothing, and send you to the
Exhibition, where some widow will fall in love with you, and you shall be
put as frontispiece for the 'Book of Beauty,' by Jove," cries another
military satirist--to whom Butts:
"You hold your tongue, you old Saracen's Head; they're going to have you
done on the bear's-grease pots. I say, I suppose Jack's all right now.
When did he write to you last, Cracky?"
"He wrote from Palermo--a most jolly letter from him and Kew. He hasn't
touched a card for nine months; is going to give up play. So is Frank,
too, grown quite a good boy. So will you, too, Butts, you old miscreant,
repent of your sins, pay your debts, and do something handsome for that
poor deluded milliner in Albany Street. Jack says Kew's mother has
written over to Lord Highgate a beautiful letter--and the old boy's
relenting, and they'll come together again--Jack's eldest son now, you
know. Bore for Lady Susan only having girls."
"Not a bore for Jack, though," cries another.


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