"Well, Mr. Witherington," said Ned Hayward, perfectly aware that nothing so much provokes a pompous man as mistaking his name, "here we are according to appointment, and doubtless you are ready to take our depositions, Mr. Witherington."
"Wittingham, Sir," said the magistrate, impressively, laying a strong emphasis on each syllable, "I beg you'll give me my own name, and nobody else's."
"Ay, ay, Whittington," said Ned Hayward, with the utmost composure, "I forgot; I knew it was some absurd name in an old ballad or story, and confounded you somehow or other with the man in 'Chevy Chase' who
When his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.
But I remember now, you're the son of the Lord Mayor of London, the cat-man."
"No, Sir, no," exclaimed Mr. Wittingham, whose face had turned purple with rage, "I am not his son, and you must be a fool to think so, for he died two hundred years ago."
"Oh, I know nothing of history," said Ned Hayward, laughing, "and besides, I dare say it's all a fable."
"This gentleman's name is Wittingham, Sir," said the clerk, "W-I-T-wit, T-I-N-G-ting, H-A-M ham, Wittingham."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Sir," said the young gentleman, "I shan't forget it now, 'Littera scripta manet,' Mr. What's-your-name?"
"My name is Bacon, Sir," said the clerk, with a grunt.