“Now, then, Jeremiah Chubbley—stand up in the witness-box,” continued the clerk.
“Come, Mr. Chubbley—make haste,” said Mr. Bulliwell, the barrister, speaking more civilly and using the honorary prefix of Mister, because he had been retained by the individual to whom he applied it.
Mr. Chubbley mounted the witness-box; and while the oath was being administered to him, both the Commissioners inflicted a long stare on his countenance just to satisfy themselves by this physiognomical scrutiny whether he were a trust-worthy person or not;—for Commissioners in the Insolvents’ Court are great physiognomists—very great physiognomists indeed.
“Your name is Jeremiah Chubbley?” said Mr. Bulliwell, rising in a stately manner, and darting a ferocious glance towards Mr. Sheepshanks, as much as to say—“Now, my man, I am going to elicit things against you that will prove you to be the greatest rogue in existence.”
“Yes—my name be Chubbley, sir,” answered the opposing creditor. “But I paid you to tackle that there sneaking-looking chap over there, and not to ke-vestion me.”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bulliwell, blandly, “this is the way of conducting an opposition where counsel is employed. Your name is Jeremiah Chubbley; and you are a master-bricklayer, I believe?”
“I told ’ee so a veek ago,” replied the opposing creditor, savagely.
“Yes—yes: but you must tell the learned Commissioners all over again what you told me,” gently remonstrated Mr. Bulliwell. “I believe you are the proprietor of a chapel in the Tottenham Court Road?”
“Yes—I be, sir,” responded Mr. Chubbley. “I built she—and a stronger, better, or more comfortabler place of washup you wouldn’t find in all London—least ways, barrin’ St. Paul’s.”
“Well—and this chapel was to let some three or four months ago, I believe?” continued Mr. Bulliwell.