"If they're the small black ones you generally treat on, I'd rather be
excused," grumbled Mr. BLADAMS, involuntarily placing a hand upon his
stomach, as though already paying the penalty of such bivalvular
hospitality.

"Order saddle-rocks this time," was the reckless response of his
employer. "Mr. EDWIN is so rarely our guest that we must do the
princely. You'll tell them, BLADAMS, to send plenty of crackers, and
request the waiters to keep their fingers out of the stews while
bringing the latter over. I've known waiters to have their finger-nails
boiled off in time, by a habit of carrying soups and stews with the ends
of their digits in them."

The clerk departing to order the feast, Mr. DIBBLE renewed his attention
to Mr. E. DROOD, who had already taken his ball from his pocket and was
practicing against the mantel.

"I suppose you are on your way to Bumsteadville, again, Mr. EDWIN, and
have called to see if I have any message for my pretty ward over there."

"That's the ticket," assented EDWIN, making a neat fly-catch.

"You're impatient to be there, of course?" assented Mr. DIBBLE, with
what might have passed for an attempt at archness if he had not been so
wholly devoted to squareness.

"I believe the Flowerpot is expecting me," yawned the young man.

"Do you keep plants there, Mr. EDWIN?"