"Bring the lush and the pipes, old blone!" cried Ned, throwing himself on
a bench; "we are never at a loss for company!"

"You, indeed, never can be, who are always inseparably connected with the
object of your admiration," said Tomlin, son, dryly, and taking up an old
newspaper. Ned, who, though choleric, was a capital fellow, and could
bear a joke on himself, smiled, and drawing forth a little pair of
scissors, began trimming his nails.

"Curse me," said he, after a momentary silence, "if this is not a
devilish deal pleasanter than playing the fine gentleman in that great
room, with a rose in one's button-hole! What say you, Master Lovett?"

Clifford (as henceforth, despite his other aliases, we shall denominate
our hero), who had thrown himself at full length on a bench at the far
end of the room, and who seemed plunged into a sullen revery, now looked
up for a moment, and then, turning round and presenting the dorsal part
of his body to Long Ned, muttered, "Fish!"

"Harkye, Master Lovett!" said Long Ned, colouring. "I don't know what
has come over you of late; but I would have you to learn that gentlemen
are entitled to courtesy and polite behaviour; and so, d' ye see, if you
ride your high horse upon me, splice my extremities if I won't have
satisfaction!"

"Hist, man! be quiet," said Tomlinson, philosophically, snuffing the
candles,--

"'For companions to quarrel,
Is extremely immoral.'