"Frank," exclaimed Harry, as I entered, "I make you know Mr. McTaggart,
better known hereabouts as the Flying Dutchman, though how he came by a
Scotch name I can't pretend to say; he keeps the best quarter horses,
and plays the best hand of whist in the country; and now, get yourself
clean as quick as possible, for Tom never gives one five minutes wherein
to dress himself; so bustle."
And off he went as he had finished speaking, and I shaking my new friend
cordially by an exceeding bony unwashed paw, incontinently followed his
example--and in good time I did so; for I had scarcely changed my
shooting boots and wet worsteds for slippers and silk socks, before my
door, as usual, was lounged open by Tom's massy foot, and I was thus
exhorted.
"Come, come, your supper's gittin' cold; I never see such men as you and
Archer is; you're wash, wash, wash--all day. It's little water enough
that you use any other ways."
"Why, is there any other use for water, Tom?" I asked, simply enough.
"It's lucky if there aint, any how--leastwise, where you and Archer is--
else you'd leave none for the rest of us. It's a good thing you han't
thought of washing your darned stinking hides in rum--you will be at it
some of these odd days, I warrant me--why now, McTaggart, it's only
yesterday I caught Archer up stairs, a fiddling away up there at his
teeth with a little ivory brush; brushing them with cold water--cleaning
them he calls it.
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