ame; for it happens
there is only one remaining, therefore it must be the _left_ one.

_Mr. J._ (chuckling). Haw! haw! haw! Mr. S----, werry good that--werry
good indeed. I owes you two.

"I'll trouble you for a little, Mr. Spiers, if you please," says Crane,
handing his plate round the windmill.

"I'm sorry, sir, it is all gone," replies Mr. Spiers, who had just
filled Mr. Jorrocks's plate; "there's nothing left but the neck,"
holding it up on the fork.

"Well, send it," rejoins Mr. Crane; "neck or nothing, you know, Mr.
Jorrocks, as we say with the Surrey."

"Haw! haw! haw!" grunts Mr. Jorrocks, who is busy sucking a bone; "haw!
hawl haw! werry good, Crane, werry good--owes you one. Now, gentlemen,"
added he, casting his eye up the table as he spoke, "let me adwise
ye, before you attack the grouse, to take the hedge (edge) off your
appetites, or else there won't be enough, and, you know, it does not do
to eat the farmer after the gentlemen. Let's see, now--three and three
are six, six brace among eight--oh dear, that's nothing like enough. I
wish, Mrs. J----, you had followed my adwice, and roasted them all. And
now, Binjimin, you're going to break the windmill with your clumsiness,
you little dirty rascal! Why von't you let Batsay arrange the table?
Thank you, Mr. Crane, for your assistance--your politeness, sir, exceeds
your beauty." [A barrel organ strikes up before the window, and Jorrocks
throws down his knife and fork in an agony.] "Oh dear, oh dear, there's
that cursed horgan again. It's a regular annihilator. Binjimin, run and
kick the fellow's werry soul out of him. There's no man suffers so much
from music as I do. I wish I had a pocketful of sudden deaths, that I
might throw one at every thief of a musicianer that comes up the street.
I declare the scoundrel has set all my teeth on edge. Mr. Nimrod, pray
take another glass of wine after your roast beef.--Well, with Mrs. J----
if you choose, but I'll join you--always says that you are the werry
cleverest man of the day--read all your writings--anny-tommy (anatomy)
of gaming, and all. Am a hauthor myself, you know--once set to, to write
a werry long and elaborate harticle on scent, but after cudgelling my
brains, and turning the thing over and over again in my mind, all that I
could brew on the subject was, that scent was a werry rum thing; nothing
rummer than scent, except a woman."

"Pray," cried Mrs. Jorrocks, her eyes starting as she spoke, "don't l