“And who is he, pray?”
“My darling,” said Prigg, “you must have heard of Snooks?”
“Oh,” drawled Mrs. Prigg, “do you mean the creechar who sells coals?”
“The same, my dear.”
“And are you engaged against that man? How very dreadful!”
“My darling,” observed Mr. Prigg, “it is not for us to choose our opponents; nor indeed, for the matter of that, our clients.”
“I can quite perceive that,” returned the lady, “or you would never have chosen such men—dear me!”
“We are like physicians,” returned Mr. Prigg, “called in in case of need.”
“And the healing virtues of your profession must not be confined to rich patients,” said Mrs. Prigg, in her jocular manner.
“By no means,” was the good man’s reply; “justice is as much the right of the poor as the rich—so is the air we breathe—so is everything.” And he put his fingers together again, as was his wont whenever he uttered a philosophical or moral platitude.