"A plague on you!" said Tomlinson, from under cover of his woollen nightcap, "it was but this instant that I was dreaming you were going to be hanged, and now you wake me in the pleasantest part of the dream!"
"You be shot!" said Ned, turning one leg out of bed; "by-the-by, you took more than your share last night, for you owed me three guineas for our last game at cribbage! You'll please to pay me before we part to-day: short accounts make long friends!"
"However true that maxim be," returned Tomlinson, "I know one much truer, namely—long friends will make short accounts! You must ask Jack Ketch this day month, if I'm wrong!"
"That's what you call wit, I suppose!" retorted Ned, as he now, struggling into his inexpressibles, felt his way into the outer cave.
"What, ho! Mac!" cried he, as he went, "stir those bobbins of thine, which thou art pleased to call legs;—strike a light, and be dd to you!"
"A light for you," said Tomlinson profanely, as he reluctantly left his couch, "will indeed be a light to lighten the Gentiles!"
