“Well, look ee ’ere, if I sells a pig it ain’t wallied by its length, but by its weight.”
“It ain’t so with lawyers then,” rejoined Horatio; “the taxing master takes the length of the pig, and his tail counts, and the longer the tail the better the taxing master likes it; then comes,”—(as the young lad had only four fingers he was obliged to have recourse to his thumb, placing his forefinger thereon)—“then comes about ten pages on the immortality of the soul.”
“That be the tail, I spoase.”
“You got it,” said Horatio, laughing. “O, he’s a stunner on the immortality of the soul.”
“Who be?—Snooks?”
“No—Prigg—he goes into it like winkin’.”
“But what be it to do with thic case?”
“Well, if you only put in a brief what had got to do with the case it would be a poor thing.”
And I saw in my dream that the young man was speaking truthfully: it was a beautifully drawn essay on the immortality of the soul, especially Bumpkin’s.
“By George!” continued the youth, “it’ll cost something—that brief.”