“Well,” said Mr. Grahame, not liking this preface.
“Well,” continued Chewkle, “an’ when things run cross, we must, if we wants to right ’em, go to work at once, without caring about convenience. At least, them’s my sentiments, an’ that’s my way o’ doing business.”
“A very proper way, no doubt, my good friend,” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, growing yet more anxious, “but pray tell me what has happened.”
“Well, a very orkurd matter, as things stand,” replied Mr. Chewkle.
“What is it?—what is it?” cried Mr. Grahame, feverishly.
“Why, just this—old Wilton’s out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out o’ quod.”
“Out—out—out of prison?” gasped Mr. Grahame, clutching at a chair for support.
“Nothing else,” replied Chewkle, placing his hands behind him, and rocking himself backwards and forwards on his toes and heels, in a very dangerous fashion for one in his state.