“It is a will of my late father’s, of more recent date than the will proved by Mr. Boffin (address whom again, as you have addressed him already, and I’ll knock you down), leaving the whole of his property to the Crown,” said John Harmon, with as much indifference as was compatible with extreme sternness.

“Right you are!” cried Wegg. “Then,” screwing the weight of his body upon his wooden leg, and screwing his wooden head very much on one side, and screwing up one eye: “then, I put the question to you, what’s this paper worth?”

“Nothing,” said John Harmon.

Wegg had repeated the word with a sneer, and was entering on some sarcastic retort, when, to his boundless amazement, he found himself gripped by the cravat; shaken until his teeth chattered; shoved back, staggering, into a corner of the room; and pinned there.