This was followed by the punch-making, where the tastes of six different and differing individuals were to be exclusively consulted in the self-same beverage; and lastly, the supper at night, when Sparkie, as he was familiarly called, towards evening grown quite exhausted, became the subject of unmitigated wrath and most unmeasured reprobation.
"I say, Sparks, it's getting late.

The spatch-cock, old boy.

Don't be slumbering." "By-the-bye, Sparkie, what a mess you made of that pea-soup to-day! By Jove, I never felt so ill in my life!" "Na, na; it was na the soup.

It was something he pit in the punch, that's burning me ever since I tuk it.

Ou, man, but ye're an awfu' creture wi' vittals!" "He'll improve, Doctor; he'll improve.