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Obadiah resumed.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "What—Ted!"

"What our parson?"

"The reverend Edward Rouse! Parsons are sure to put their noses in. Nothing can go along now without a parson. Now then, what's he got to say about the matter? The ghost!" he added, on reading the evidence: "what—is that a fact?"

"What do you think of your glass of grog now?" cried Legge.

Why, I think I've lost it," replied Obadiah: "but stop a bit mind you; it ain't over yet!"

He then read the reply, and exclaimed, triumphantly—

"What do you think now of your glass of grog?"

"What's the verdict," cried Legge; "what's the verdict?"

"The verdict is for the plaintiff, my Briton. Damages two thousand pounds! What do you think of that! Two thousand pounds, my boy! Eh!—what do you think of that?"

"Why I think," replied Legge, "that every man on that jury ought to have two thousand lashes."

"Not a bit of it. What! don't you see!"

Yes, I see all about it. But give me the paper: I'll read it myself."

Panting to spread this "glorious" news, Obadiah at once went to call upon Pokey, for this was an extensive foundation indeed for him to build upon. Nothing but a "rattling revolution" could have given him greater scope.

"Here's your works!" he exclaimed, as he entered. "You know young Sound, don't you?"

"Young Sound," said Pokey; "oh, yes! What of him?"

"Do you know what he's been up to?"

"No: what?"

"What! Why he's been up to crim-conicalisation!"

"Crim how much?"

"Crim-conicalisation! He's been seducing one of the wives of the aristocracy."

"You don't say so!"

"Oh, it's in the papers. There it is in black and white! You'll see it at the Crumpet. Damages two thousand pounds, my boy; what do you think of that! But she's as bad as him—nay, she's twenty times worse! Haven't I always told you what they were? Haven't I always said that the pauper aristocracy were steeped to the very eyes in amalgamating vice? Look at 'em. What are they—why there isn't a woman amongst 'em fit to be trusted, nor has there been since the time of Peter the Great; and yet these are the wretches—I call 'em wretches—who wring a hundred millions a-year out of the vitals of the poverty-stricken people. Isn't it monstrous—isn't it disgusting for any civilized mind to amalgamate upon? Why, before I'd stand it, if I was John Bull, I'd kick 'em all over to Botany Bay. I wouldn't have it!"

"Well, but who is this woman? Who is she?"

"Why, a lady of title, to be sure! a Lady Julian—Lady Matilda