―Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.

―Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish.

I was just looking round to see who the happy thought would strike when be damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.

―I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope I’m not⁠ ⁠…

―No, says Martin, we’re ready.

Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver. Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There’s a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to five.

―Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen.

―Beg your pardon, says he.