Jowler attack the currie-bhaut;--she was exactly the color of it, as I
have had already the honor to remark, and she swallowed the mixture with
a gusto which was never equalled, except by my poor friend Dando apropos
d'huitres. She consumed the first three platefuls with a fork and spoon,
like a Christian; but as she warmed to her work, the old hag would throw
away her silver implements, and dragging the dishes towards her, go to
work with her hands, flip the rice into her mouth with her fingers, and
stow away a quantity of eatables sufficient for a sepoy company. But why
do I diverge from the main point of my story?
Julia, then, Jowler, and Mrs. J. were at luncheon: the dear girl was in
the act to sabler a glass of Hodgson as I entered. "How do you do, Mr.
Gagin?" said the old hag, leeringly. "Eat a bit o' currie-bhaut,"--and
she thrust the dish towards me, securing a heap as it passed. "What!
Gagy my boy, how do, how do?" said the fat Colonel. "What! run through
the body?--got well again--have some Hodgson--run through your body
too!"--and at this, I may say, coarse joke (alluding to the fact that
in these hot climates the ale oozes out as it were from the pores of the
skin) old Jowler laughed: a host of swarthy chobdars, kitmatgars, sices,
consomahs, and bobbychies laughed too, as they provided me, unasked,
with the grateful fluid.
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