"Yes, sar, a German, sar; with a name so long, sar, it take all the indoor
servants and a stable-helper to call him up of a morning."

"You don't understand me. Have you any public people here?"

"Yes, sar--great man from town, sar--belongs to the Theatre--Mr. Fitzflam,
sar--quite the gentleman, sar."

"Thank you for the compliment" (_bowing low_).

"No compliment at all, sar; would you like to see him, sar?--sell you a
ticket, sar; or buy one of you, sar."

"What?"

"House expected to be full, sar--sure to sell it again, sar."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"The play, sar--Fitzflam, sar!--there's the bill, sar, and (_bell rings_)
there's the bell, sar. Coming." (_Exit Waiter_.)

The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal
Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that
insane waiter's submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks,
and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the
next was to look at the bill, and there he saw--"horror of horrors!"--the
name, "the bright ancestral name"--the name he bore, bursting forth in all
the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!