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Updated: June 6, 2025
With thy permission, Mr. Pogson, I will lock up my desk and return home at once." To this Mr. Pogson of course assented, recommending the Quaker to put the newspaper into his pocket. Zachary Fay, as he walked to the spot where he was wont to find the omnibus, considered much as to what he might best do when he reached home.
Though she had declared that she had almost expected this offer from her lover, still it could not be that the Quaker girl, the daughter of Zachary Fay, Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's clerk, should not be astounded by having such an offer from such a suitor as Lord Hampstead. But in truth the glory of the thing was not very much to her. It was something, no doubt.
"The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock, as tipsy as possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before a lord's son, Major, a tip-top fellow, who brings a couple of bills that my friend Pogson is said to have signed." "Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple, he must pay them." "I can't pay them."
"Or die!" repeated Tribbledale. "It is what I should have done. Had she become Mrs. Crocker, I should never again have been seen in the Court," "the Court" was the little alley in which Pogson and Littlebird's office was held, "unless they had brought my dead body here to be identified." He was quite successful in his enthusiasm. Though Mr. Littlebird laughed when he told the story to Mr.
Pogson, "have you read this yet?" and he handed him the paper. "I never have much time for the newspaper till I get home at night," said the clerk, taking the sheet that was offered him. "You had better read it, perhaps, as I have heard your name mentioned, I know not how properly, with that of the young lord."
'It was here young Tribbledale fell, a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, who dashed out his brains for love on the very day as Clara Demijohn got herself married. I'm of that disposition, Crocker, as I'd do anything for love; anything."
While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was rung, which signal being answered by a surly "Come in," a tall, very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin, entered the room. "Pogson my buck, how goes it?" said he, familiarly, and gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat. "Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again.
He stared rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded at once to business. "Major British," said I, "we want your advice in regard to an unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson." "Pogson, take a chair." "You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome woman."
But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that sprightly and elegant familiarity which generally forms the great charm of his conversation: he was too much frightened at the presence he was in, and contented himself by graceful and solemn bows, deep attention, and ejaculations of "Yes, my lady," and "No, your ladyship," for some minutes after the discovery had been made.
Fane-Smith's great study; it seems such a pity that five foot three, with few books and nothing to do, should have all that space, and six foot four, with much work and many books, be cramped up in this little room." "What would you say to a move?" "It will be such an expensive year, and there's that dreadful Mr. Pogson always in the background." "But if a house were given to us? Where's Tom?
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