Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a
polite ecstasy of mirth.
"Oh, by Jove!" he gasped, "if that ain't infernal clever, I'll be shot!
Oh, doocid clever I call it--what!"
"Er--by the way, Brim," said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the
open window, "where does he happen to be to-night?"
"Where?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker,
"where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I
throws up my 'ands, and I answers you--'eavens knows! Young Har is a
unknown quantity, sir--a will o' the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus
fattus. At this pre-cise moment 'e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho
or--a-sittin' outside on the lawn--which Gawd forbid! But there, don't
let's talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we'll bring up
enough port to drownd sorrer an' care all night."
"With all my heart!" said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.
"Ditto, indeed!" nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host's arm,
and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.
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