“Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam,” roars he, “left me by my father's will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and know as well as I do.”
“Old Tug left no will,” shrieked Jemmy; “he didn't die to leave his estates to blackamoors—to negroes—to base-born mulatto story-tellers; if he did may I be ——-”
“Oh, hush! dearest mamma,” says Jemimarann. “Go it again, mother!” says Tug, who is always sniggering.
“What is this business, Mr. Tuggeridge?” cried Tagrag (who was the only one of our party that had his senses). “What is this will?”
“Oh, it's merely a matter of form,” said the lawyer, riding up. “For heaven's sake, madam, be peaceable; let my friends, Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, arrange with me. I am surprised that none of their people are here. All that you have to do is to eject us; and the rest will follow, of course.”
“Who has taken possession of this here property?” roars Jemmy, again.
“My friend Mr. Scapgoat,” said the lawyer.—Mr. Scapgoat grinned.
“Mr. Scapgoat,” said my wife, shaking her fist at him (for she is a woman of no small spirit), “if you don't leave this ground I'll have you pushed out with pitchforks, I will—you and your beggarly blackamoor yonder.” And, suiting the action to the word, she clapped a stable fork into the hands of one of the gardeners, and called another, armed with a rake, to his help, while young Tug set the dog at their heels, and I hurrahed for joy to see such villany so properly treated.
“That's sufficient, ain't it?” said Mr. Scapgoat, with the calmest air in the world. “Oh, completely,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Tuggeridge, we've ten miles to dinner. Madam, your very humble servant.” And the whole posse of them rode away.
LAW LIFE ASSURANCE.