"'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the fine arts, at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every moment, at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar; recollect we are not at Gentleman George's now!"
"The more's the pity, Augustus," answered Ned. "Soho, Little John! woaho, Sir! a nice long night like this, is made on purpose for drinking—Will you, Sir? keep still then!"
"Man never is, but always to be blest," said the moralising Tomlinson; "you see you sigh for other scenes even when you have a fine night and the chance of a God-send before you."
"Ay, the night is fine enough," said Ned, who was rather a grumbler, as, having finished his groomlike operation, he now slowly mounted. "Damn it, Oliver[1] looks out as broadly as if he were going to blab. For my part, I love a dark night with a star here and there winking at us, as much as to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I won't say a word about it,' and a small, pattering, drizzling, mizzling rain that prevents Little John's
- ↑ The moon.
