But these words is all she whispered—‘Why, where is the powder blew?’”
“SKYING A COPPER.”
“IF THE COACH GOES AT SIX PRAY WHAT TIME GOES THE BASKET?”
THE LAST SHILLING.
HE was evidently a foreigner, and poor. As I sat at the opposite corner of the Southgate stage, I took a mental inventory of his wardrobe. A military cloak much the worse for wear,—a blue coat, the worse for tear,—a napless hat—a shirt neither white nor brown—a pair of mud-colour gloves, open at each thumb—gray trousers too short for his legs—and brown boots too long for his feet.
From some words he dropt, I found that he had come direct from Paris, to undertake the duties of French teacher, at an English academy; and his companion, the English classical usher, had been sent to London, to meet and conduct him to his suburban destination.