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That brootle Fitzwarren, my ex-vally, womb I met, fimilliarly slapt me on the sholder, and said, 'Jeames, my boy, you'd best go into suvvis aginn. "I DID go into suvvis the wust of all suvvices I went into the Queen's Bench Prison, and lay there a misrabble captif for 6 mortial weeks. Misrabble shall I say? no, not misrabble altogether; there was sunlike in the dunjing of the pore prisner.
The marine rose to the strictest of attentions. "An' it's no good smelling of my breath, because I'm strictly an' ruinously sober." "Oh! An' what may you have been doin' with yourself?" "Listenin' to tracts. You can look! I've had the evenin' of my little life. Lead on to the Cornucopia's midmost dunjing cell.
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