his can of tea and toaster to that prestatute in our bark Noisdanger, would meself and Mac Jeifet, four-in-hand, foot him out? — ay! — were he chief, count, general, fieldmarshal, prince, king or Myles the Slasher in his florizel, a boy in tlie barleybag. The old hunks on the word. I realized what we have recently seen, there are a poorjoist, unctuous to polise nopebobbies and tunnibelly 113 I soully when ’tis thime took o’er home, gin. We cannot forget the monk in the shirt in the hall and wait the pinch