ROOM IN THE INN. 81 



morsels of mutton then, for a semi-flapper from 

 thee and I shall crown all by quarrying into the 

 heart of yonder ewe-milk kebbock. 



Hackle. This is supping with a vengeance ! 



Swivel. Say you, Harry ? Any pigeons-eggs on 

 the table for our friend Hackle ? He hasn't the 

 appetite of a torn-tit. These arms of thine want 

 brawn, Harry ; and these legs ha ! ha ! Didst thou 

 ever behold a well-shaped, unhosed, and finely- 

 rounded limb without blushing at the poor, 

 scraggy, and unfortunate shanks on which thou 

 thyself trudgest ? 'Tis a pity, man, the art of flesh- 

 gathering is so rare with thee. See Torn Otter, 

 there, and Tim Gaff ay, and the rest of us we 

 have more than skin and bones we are not dry, 

 rattling bags, like our great-grandmothers ; and 

 why ? 'tis past nature we should be otherwise ; see 

 how we eat 1 



Hackle. Stuff, cram, gorge ! 



May. Not so, Master Hackle ; I for one am 

 esteemed singularly abstemious. I have no whirl- 

 pool within me, like these honest gentlemen. I 

 don't discuss a mutton at a meal, nor shake a firlot 

 of eggs down my throat at breakfast, as some of 

 them do. Am / stuffed, crammed, and gorged ? 



Hackle. Gluttonous beyond measure, Bill. 



May. Listen, ye shades of doughty warriors ! 

 to whom a sirloin of stout beef was as a matter of 

 moonshine ye who could tuck under your noble 



