"It's you, is it?" said the old fellow from his bed. "I shan't take
you back again, you understand."
"I ave not the least wish to be took back agin, Major Pendennis," Mr.
Morgan said, with grave dignity, "nor to serve you nor hany man. But
as I wish you to be comftable as long as you stay in my house, I came
up to do what's nessary." And once more, and for the last time, Mr.
James Morgan laid out the silver dressing-case, and strapped the
shining razor.
These offices concluded, he addressed himself to the major with an
indescribable solemnity, and said: "Thinkin' that you would most
likely be in want of a respectable pusson, until you suited yourself,
I spoke to a young man last night, who is 'ere."
"Indeed," said the warrior in the tent-bed.
"He ave lived in the fust families, and I can vouch for his
respectability."
"You are monstrous polite," grinned the old major. And the truth is
that after the occurrences of the previous evening, Morgan had gone
out to his own Club at the Wheel of Fortune, and there finding Frosch,
a courier and valet just returned from a foreign tour with young Lord
Cubley, and for the present disposable, had represented to Mr.
Pages:
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715