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270 incorrectness. It is not twenty-five thou.—but twenty-five pounds! 3.45.—Hiphussar! Cockadoodledoo! A mere bite from a flea! . . . The plaintiff has fallen into hystericals from disappointed avariciousness. . . . There is some idle talk about costs following the event, and certifying for a special jury—a luxury for which it seems I am not to fork out. The case is over.

Outside in the corridor and hall I was the cynosure of neighbouring eyes, and vociferously applauded as a "good old nigger," and told that "now they shouldn't be long," though for what else they were waiting I could not learn. Madame did overtake me near the doors and invite me to tea and talk in a coffee and bun emporium, hinting that she had recently misunderstood the state of her daughter's heart, and that she had in reality been ardently desirous from the first to accept my offer. To which I replied that the gates of grave were now hermetically closed, and that the plaintiff, like the fabulous canine, had thrown away the meaty bone of a first-class opportunity in exchange for the rather flimsy and shadowy form of a twenty-five pound note. But, as a chivalrous, I refrained from saying that I had been thus totally put off by an over-powdered nose.