"A man dead behind your counter, sir?" scream the Misses W.!
With one desperate splurge, up jumps the beau; rushes out, up stairs—gets on his clothes, and we did not see him again for over two years!
A Juvenile Joe Miller.
We observed a small transaction last Wednesday noon, on Hanover street, that wasn't so coarse for an urchin hardly out of his swaddling clouts. He was a cunning-looking little fellow, and poking his head into a shoe shop, he bawls out in a very keen, fine, silvery voice—
"S-a-a-y, Mister-r-r—"
"Eh?—what?" says the shop-keeper.
"Somebody's got your boots out here!"
Supposing, of course, that somebody was pegging away with a bunch of his wares at the door, Lapstone rushes out and cries—
"Where?"