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 in his haste to put down his knife and fork to reply, he, having his elbows quite square at the time, upset a decanter of sherry.

The reverend gentleman took no apparent notice of this circumstance: he handed him the glass of ale gracefully; but Jones felt very uncomfortable. He didn't enjoy himself at all. He couldn't keep his eyes off his reverend friend. His very anxiety to do nothing wrong, rendered him so nervous, that he could do nothing right.

"How do you get on, Mr. Jones?" said the reverend gentleman, who saw that he didn't and couldn't get on.

"Capital," replied Jones; "the pigeons is nice."

This was said on speculation. The pigeons he had not even tasted. He could do nothing with them. He turned them over and over, and did once try to cut one of them fairly in half, but as his knife slipped, and the gravy flew, he gave the thing up as a bitter bad job. True, he broke in the crust, and fished up a piece of steak, but he dared not again attempt to get a bit of pigeon. He wanted that pie in his tool-house alone!—the pigeons would not have got over him there.

"Another glass of wine?" said the reverend gentleman.

Down went the knife and fork again on the instant, for every time the reverend gentleman spoke, Jones appeared as if struck with paralysis.

"Good health," said he, having filled his glass.

"My love to you," again said the reverend gentleman.

"Beg pardon: my love to you," echoed Jones, who felt bound to follow whatever suit might be led. But, oh! how sincerely did he wish it all over. "If this here's the way," thought he, "gentlemen enjoys 'emselves, blest if I a'nt pleased I wasn't a gentleman."

"This is very fair wine," said his reverend companion.

"Yes," returned Jones; "this is very fair wine."

"There's some body in it."

"Yes, there's some body in it," but whether that body were dead or alive, Jones didn't know; nor did he care.

"Have another glass of ale," said the reverend gentleman, when Jones had recommenced operations on the pie, and Jones again left his work, and passed the glass; but these startling interruptions were very distressing: indeed, so distressing, that Jones, having drank the glass of ale, which he felt bound to do, the very moment he had received it, put his knife and fork together and gave the thing up.

"But you haven't finished," said his reverend friend.

"Done capital well," replied Jones. "Not a mite more, I thank you."

"Well; you have made but a very poor supper!"

"I ain't the leastest hungry in life!" returned Jones.

"Well, then, let us have the cheese."

Jones rose, and having cleared a sufficient space on the tray, went to the sideboard and brought the cheese; and when the reverend gentleman had sent him a slice, he put it into his mouth with a great degree of comfort.

"A small piece more?" said his reverend friend.