It's the skull, JOHN McLAUGHLIN, of a
twin-brother of the man who really wished--really wished, JOHN
McLAUGHLIN--that he could be sat'shfied, sir, in his own mind, that
CHARLES DICKENS was a Christian writer."
"Why, thash's skull of a hog," explains Mr. McLAUGHLIN, with some
contempt.
"Twin-brother--all th'shame," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, as though that made no
earthly difference.
Once more, what a strange expedition is this! How strangely the eyes of
the two men look, after two or three more applications to the antique
flask; and how curiously Mr. Bumstead walks on tip-toe at times and
takes short leaps now and then.
"Lesh go now," says BUMSTEAD, after both have been asleep upon their feet
several times; "I think th's snakes down here, JOHN McBUMSTEAD."
"Wh'st! monkies, you mean,--dozens of black monkies, Mr. BUMPLIN,"
whispers OLD MORTARITY, clutching his arm as he sinks against him.
"Noshir! Serp'nts!" insists Mr. BUMSTEAD, making futile attempts to open
his umbrella with one hand. "Warzesmarrer with th' light?--ansh'r me t'
once, Mac JOHNBUNKLIN!"
In their swayings under the confusions and delusions of the vault, their
lanterns have worked around to the neighborhoods of their spines, so
that, whichever way they turn, the light is all behind them.
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