But I was portentous, I can assure you. It can wait a bit longer. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. Can’t ask the gent to go abroad and condone a bigamy. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him.
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