"Hey?" said Uncle Issy sharply. "What? A stammerin' little slip of a chap in a moleskin waistcoat?"
"That's the man. Leastways I never see'd him wear a moleskin waistcoat, 'xcept on Sundays."
"But it was Sunday!"
"Hey?"
"Oh, tell me—tell me, that's dear souls! Makes a whistly noise in his speech—do he?—like a slit bellows?"
"That's Jackson, to a hair. But—but—then you hev seen 'en?"
"Seen 'en?" cried Uncle Issy. "A nice miss I ha'n't helped to bury 'en, by this time! Oh yes… if you want Jackson he's inside: an' what's more, he's a long way inside. But you can't want him half so much as he'll be wantin' you."
HIS EXCELLENCY'S PRIZE-FIGHT.
My grand-uncle pushed the decanter of brown sherry: a stout old-fashioned decanter, with shoulders almost as square as his own, and a silver chain about them bearing a silver label—not unlike the badge and collar which he himself wore on full ceremonial occasions.