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Updated: May 18, 2025
Toole behind the central throne, bawling out to the assembled guests and dignitaries: "My Lord So-and-so, my Lord What-d'ye-call-'im, my Lord Etcaetera, the Lord Mayor pledges you all in a loving-cup." Then the noble proceedings come to an end; Lord Simper proposes the ladies; the company rises from table, and adjourns to coffee and muffins.
"Will you pay my bill, Mr. What-d'ye-call-'im?" here cried Mr. "I want the room for a gentleman. I guess it's too dear for the like of you." And here will you believe it? the man handed me a bill of three guineas for two days' board and lodging in his odious house.
So I said I was going to sleep at Versailles that night; but if she would give a convoy to Jack Butts, it would be conferring a great obligation on him; with which favour the old lady accordingly complied, saying to him, with great coolness, "Get up and sit with John in the rumble, Mr. What-d'ye-call-'im." The fact is, the good old soul despises an artist as much as she does a tailor.
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