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Updated: June 6, 2025
Pogson had spared neither trouble nor expense; he had brought witnesses from all the ends of the earth to swear that, in some cases twenty years ago, they had heard the plaintiff speak such and such words, or seen him do such and such deeds. The array of witnesses appeared endless; there seemed no reason why the trial ever should come to an end.
Thus the comet predicted by Klinkerfues and discovered by Pogson had already lagged to the extent of twelve weeks, and we shall meet instances farther on where the retardation is counted, not by weeks, but by years. Here original identity emerges only from calculation and comparison of orbits. Comets, then, die, as Kepler wrote long ago, sicut bombyces filo fundendo.
Let this be done, and the profession of table-master is ruined. Snorter and Pogson may almost as well order their own dinners, as be at the mercy of a "gastronomic agent" whose faith is not beyond all question.
He could not endure the thought of leaving London, it might be for much more than the one day intended, without making some effort in regard to the object which was nearest his heart. Early in the day he walked into Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's office, and saw Mr. Tribbledale seated on a high stool behind a huge desk, which nearly filled up the whole place.
"Couldn't, you know, as a man of honor; but I made up for all that," said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand to his little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way. "You did, and how?"
During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the way with the best-bred English on their first arrival "on the Continent," all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he had seen.
A vulgar mind, in reply to these remarks regarding the gastronomic ignorance of Snorter and Pogson, might say, "True, these gentlemen know nothing of household economy, being occupied with other more important business elsewhere. But what are their wives about? Lady Pogson in Harley Street has nothing earthly to do but to mind her poodle, and her mantua-maker's and housekeeper's bills. Mrs.
"What's that?" said Tom. "'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you," said Raeburn. A few minutes later, and the memorable trial of Raeburn v. Pogson had at length begun. Raeburn's friends had done their best to dissuade him from conducting his own case, but he always replied to them with one of his Scotch proverbs "A man's a lion in his ain cause."
"It's lucky dueling is a thing of the past or I expect Pogson would have a bullet in his heart before the day was over. I don't wonder he's furious, poor fellow! Now, then here's old Cringer working himself up into his very worst temper!" The whispered dialogue was interrupted for a few minutes but was continued at intervals. "By Jove, what a voice she's got!
Had he been alone at Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's he would have heard nothing of the false tidings. But sitting in his inner room, Mr. Pogson read the third edition of the Evening Advertiser, and then saw the statement, given with many details. "We," said the statement, "have sent over to the office of our contemporary, and have corroborated the facts." Then the story was repeated.
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