"D—n Judge Learmouth!" cried the gentleman angrily. "If I were a judge, I'd hang such a careless fellow."
"Sarve him right!" screamed Mag—"sarve him right!"
The Barber of London.
"Beg pardon, sir," cried Watts. "I'll rectify you in a minute."
"Well, my little friend," observed Trigge, "and what may be your object in coming to me? as the great conveyancer, Mr. Plodwell, observes to his clients—what may be your object?"
"You want an assistant, don't you, sir?" rejoined the little man humbly.