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Updated: June 1, 2025
I had been trying to teach myself shorthand, and had made some progress with Pitman's system of phonography; but now, thanks to the kindness of Mr. Marshall, I secured the services of a first-rate teacher, and soon made rapid progress in that difficult art. My teacher was Mr. Lowes, an admirable shorthand writer, who wrote a system of his own. To Mr.
"What the devil's the good of you talking that nonsense, Jimmy?" said the persuasive orators; "why, you know he'd sleep with his head in a bucket of slush." "Yes, but I'm feared he'll waken, and then there'll be an almighty row." "Well," replied the tempters, "we always thought you a real shipmate, and as full of pluck as a pitman's badger.
Tapping his teeth with one thumb, he gazed at her, apparently in meditation upon her peculiar case. At last he said: "I tell you what you ought to do. You ought to go in for phonography." "Phonography?" She was at a loss. "Yes; Pitman's shorthand, you know." "Oh! shorthand yes. I've heard of it. But why?" "Why? It's going to be the great thing of the future. There never was anything like it!"
He is now dead and no truth can hurt his feelings any more, but I think he was about as ignorant and self-satisfied an ass as I can remember to have encountered anywhere. There was one thing to be said for him: he had mastered the intricacies of Pitman's shorthand system and wrote it almost to perfection.
"That's the style, William Dent!" cried Michael. "There's fire for your money! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies a sort of Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave in Cleopatra's head." But the sight of Pitman's alacrity was infectious. The lawyer could sit still no longer.
I could not untie it, and I was in a hurry." "How did you cut it?" "With my pocket-knife." "You did not use Mrs. Pitman's bread-knife?" "I did not." "And in cutting it, you cut your wrist, did you?" "Yes. The knife slipped. I have the scar still." "What did you do then?" "I went back to the room, and stanched the blood with a towel." "From whom did you get the medicine?"
Pitman's school of shorthand had been there to take them down the thing could possibly have been done in word-writing. If the late Richard Wagner, however, had been present he could have scored the performance for a full orchestra; and with all its weird grunts and roars, and pistol-like finger clicks, and its elongated words and thigh slaps, it would have been a masterpiece.
There was only a lady in one of the far doorways, of whom she took vague note and who seemed to be looking at them. "They'd have to lie for themselves!" "Do you mean he's capable of putting it to them?" Mr. Pitman's tone threw discredit on that possibility, but she knew perfectly well what she meant.
"It will disappoint him mightily," Henley said, a sudden feeling of aversion to the subject on him. "It will break the fellow all up. He's been counting the days and hours." "I can't help it." Dixie shrugged her shoulders indifferently, her head down. They were now in the little wood that lay between Pitman's farm and her cottage.
Not at John Street, for it would never do to let a man like Bent Pitman know your real address; nor yet at Pitman's house, some dreadful place in Holloway, with a trap-door in the back kitchen; a house which you might enter in a light summer overcoat and varnished boots, to come forth again piecemeal in a market-basket.
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