Mrs. Jenkins, not much more famous for meekness in expressing her
opinions than was Ketch, turned her gaze upon that gentleman. "_What_
do you say you have come for?" asked she.
"Why, I have come for supper, that's what I have come for," shrieked
Ketch, trembling. "Jenkins invited me to supper; tripe and onions; and
I'd like to know what it all means, and where the supper is."
"You are going into your dotage," said Mrs. Jenkins, with an amount of
scorn so great that it exasperated Ketch as much as the words
themselves. "You'll be wanting a lunatic asylum next. Tripe and onions!
If Jenkins was to hint at such a thing as a plate of tripe coming
inside my house, I'd tripe him. There's nothing I have such a hatred to
as tripe; and he knows it."
"Is this the way to treat a man?" foamed Ketch, disappointment and
hunger driving him almost into the state hinted at by Mrs. Jenkins.
"Joe Jenkins sends me down a note an hour ago, to come here to supper
with his old father, and it was to be tripe and onions! It _is_ tripe
night!" he continued, rather wandering from the point of argument, as
tears filled his eyes. "You can't deny as it's tripe night."
"Here, Lydia, open the door and let him out," cried Mrs. Jenkins,
waving her hand imperatively towards it. "And what have you been at
with your face again?" continued she, as the candle held by that damsel
reflected its light. "One can't see it for colly.
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