B. How much?
C. What's that?
A. Why, Pickwick, to be sure.
B. Oh! Eh? Pickwick—Moses—Bath coach—I know.
C. Pickwick—near Chippenham? Paul Methven lives there—I know.
A. No—no—I tell you, he's a man that writes.
B. Is he? He may be. How should I know?
C. Well—it's a d——d hard case, that, at the beginning of the season, I should have lost a d——d good tiger. Has any body got a d——d small tiger for sale?
As we are in the humour for dialogue, we may as well give a verbatim report of our last interview with Lord——, who had been a fast fellow in his youth. We encountered him on the sunny side of St James's Street, the other day, tottering to Brookes's: although we don't expect you to believe it, what passed was, as we recollect it, exactly as follows:—
"Well, my Lord, I hope your gout is better?"