“Sorry you’ve won, Mr. Bumpkin? No; but, I’m sorry for Snooks, because we lose our costs. Oh, that Locust is the greatest dodger I ever met.”
“I don’t understand thee, sir,” said Bumpkin. “What d’ye mean by not getting costs—won’t ur pay?”
“I fear not,” said Mr. Prigg, rubbing his hands. “I am surprised, too, that he should not have waited until the rule for a new trial was argued.”
“What the devil be the meaning o’ all this?” exclaimed Bumpkin.
“Really, really,” said the pious diffuser of Christianity, “we must exercise patience; we may get more damages if there should be another trial.”
“This be trial enough,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “and after all it were a trumpery case about a pig.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands; “but you see, my dear sir, it’s not so much the pig.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “it beant so much th’ pig; it be the hoarses moore, and the hayricks, and the whate, and—where be all my fowls and dooks?”
“The fowls—quite so! Let me see,” said the meditative man, pressing the head of his gold pencil-case against his forehead, “the fowls—let me see—oh, I know, they did the pleadings—so they did.”
“And thic sow o’ mine?”