“So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?” cries Jones.
“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.
“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.
“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, “not above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.”
“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; “however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”
And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.