Time Enough for Some Aquacalisthenics

"What say we to the pool?" said Stanley.
"What?" said Johnson, amist some revelry.
"'What say we to the pool,' I said"
For some time, Johnson and Stanley had been enjoying the pool at Gregory Hall, where they would strip down to their underthing and languish a bit in the water. This wasn't so much a time for conversation, but a time for working out the aches and daily dues in ones muscles, and providing aid to one another, when directed. It had been Stanley's invention of some time to take a quarter barrel of boiling water from the maid's entrance down to the pool and balance it on the ledge, a device which he thought to patent as Stanley's Hot Tub.

Perplexing Musings on Commerce and Canines

But unsavory never caused Johnson to flinch, despite all outward appearances of dignity and class. For this was the Johnson duality, the riddle of Johnson, if you will: educated but crass, well-dressed but cruel, and well-spoken but savage. For this precise reason he loved to imagine the impression he created in the minds of men as they imagined him, taxman Johnson, taking his pints in Gregory's Hall. The thought filled him with a strange and curious satisfaction.

Stanley walked in with his typical fervor. Slamming the door and such
nonsense.

"Silence!" belched Johnson, "you let in more cold air with your
entrances than the bitch wind herself."

"Keep your bally-hoo and piss vindicatives to yourself. I'll teach
you a thing or two about civility, you vile bugger." Stanley only
wished he could give Johnson such a lashing, but these are the cruel
jokes life plays. Although Stanley was nobler by blood, and indeed
Johnson's one-time mentor, for all intents and purposes, he was a soon
to be finished man. This did not prevent him from staring though.
And stare he did, as he hobbled towards the area where Johnson kept his affects. A curt and frothy "evening" was all he could muster.

Johnson, in typical fashion, ignored Stanley. While Stanley ordered his first ale, he said to himself over and over, "Johnson Graffman."
The name did something to him. At one time he suspected he had manly feelings for Johnson, but now he knew better; Johnson was not a man you could love since loathing was the only emotion Johnson was capable of. Except for his dog named Ricky, Johnson hated the world and he felt as though the world responded in kind. Johnson adjusted his monocle and "accidentally" poked Stanley in the ass with his cane.
"Sorry," smirked Johnson, "confounded stick thinks for itself."

"Have you heard the news?" Stanley asked, suddenly aware again of how
what he knew would unnerve the great man. "The news about Palace Mutual?
Comes as a great sur..."
"What? What are you speaking of you old fool? Palace Mutual folded
last year."
"So it did, so it did. I hear talk of a resurrection though. I am
surprise you weren't informed."
"Peh, resurrection. More like a turd that won't flush," Johnson replied taking another gulp.

Johnson scrathed his right gonad again and quickly forgot about Palace Mutual, instead letting his thoughts drift to his dog Ricky.
Ricker-ticker, he called him. Ricky Ricky With a Big Big Dickey was another one. Nobody must ever learn my names for Ricky, Johnson thought, or I'd be made out as a fool for eternity. Stanley interrupted again.