"Ten thousand pounds! By jingo, but that _is_ a slice out of the cake! Oh, Lord!" quoth Titmouse, looking aghast. "A mere crumb, my dear sir!--a trifle! Why, _we_ are going to give _you_ that sum at least every year--and indeed it was suggested to our firm, that unless you gave us at least a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds--in fact, we were recommended to look out for some other heir." "Oh dear! oh Mr. Gammon," cried Titmouse, hastily--"it's not to be thought of, sir." "So I said; and as for throwing it up--to be sure we shall have ourselves to borrow large sums to carry on the war--and unless we have your bond for at least ten thousand pounds, we cannot raise a farthing." "Well--curse me, if you sha'n't do what you like!--Give me your hand, and do what you like, Mr. Gammon!" "Thank you, Mr. Titmouse! How I like a glass of wine with a friend in this quiet way!--you'll always find me rejoiced to show"---- "Your hand! By George--Didn't I take a liking to you from the first? But to speak my mind a bit--as for Mr. Quirk--excuse me--but he's a cur--cur--cur--mudg--mudg--mudg--eon--hem!" "Hope you've not been so imprudent, my dear Titmouse," threw in Mr. Gammon, rather anxiously, "as to borrow money--eh?" "Devil knows, and devil cares! No stamp, I know--bang up to the mark"--here he winked an eye, and put his finger to his nose--"wide awake--Huck--uck--uck--uck! how his name sti--sticks. Your hand, Mr. Gammon--here--this, this way--what are you bobbing your head about for? Ah, ha!--The floor--'pon my life!--how funny--it's like being at sea--up, down--oh dear!"--he clapped his hand to his head. [Pythagoras has finely observed, that a man is not to be considered dead drunk till he lies on the floor, and stretches out his arms and legs to prevent his going lower.] See-saw, see-saw, up and down, up and down, went everything about him. Now he felt sinking through the floor, then gently rising towards the ceiling. Mr. Gammon seemed getting into a mist, and waving about the candles in it. Mr. Titmouse's head swam; his chair seemed to be resting on the waves of the sea. "I'm afraid the room's rather close, Mr. Titmouse," hastily observed Gammon, perceiving from Titmouse's sudden paleness and silence, but too evident symptoms that his powerful intellect was for a while paralyzed. Gammon started to the window and opened it. Paler, however, and paler became Titmouse. Gammon's game was up much sooner than he had calculated on. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" he called out, opening the sitting-room door--"order a coach instantly, and tell Tomkins"--that was the inn porter--"to get his son ready to go home with this gentleman--he's not very well." He was quickly obeyed. It was, in truth, "_all up_" with Titmouse--at least for a while.