When Mr. Bumpkin got into the lower part of that magnificent pile of buildings which we have agreed to call the Heart of Civilisation, he soon became the centre of a dirty mob of undersized beings who were anxious to obtain a sight of him; and many of whom were waiting to congratulate their friend, the engraver. Amidst the crowd was Mr. Alibi. That gentleman had no intention of meeting Mr. Bumpkin any more, for certain expenses were due to him as a witness, and it had long been a custom at the Old Bailey, that if the representative of the Crown did not see the witnesses the expenses due to them would fall into the Consolidated Fund, so that it was a clear gain to the State if its representative officers did not meet the witnesses. On this occasion, however, Mr. Alibi ran against his client
accidentally, and being a courteous gentleman, could not forbear condoling with him on the unsuccessful termination of his case.
“You, see,” began Mr. Alibi, “I was instructed so late—really, the wonder is, when gentlemen don’t employ a solicitor till the last moment, how we ever lay hold of the facts at all. Now look at your case, sir. Yes, yes, I’m coming—bother my clerks, how they worry—I’ll be there directly.”
“But thic feller,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “who had my case din’t know nowt about it. I could ha’ done un better mysel.”
“Ah, sir; so we are all apt to think. He’s a most clever man, that—a very rising man, sir.”
“Be he?” said Bumpkin.
“Why, do you know, sir,” continued Mr. Alibi, “he was very great at his University.”
“That bean’t everything, though, by a long way.”
“No, sir, granted, granted. But he was Number Four in his boat; and the papers all said his feathering was beautiful.”
“A good boatman, wur he?”