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Updated: June 29, 2025
"Can't say as to that," replied Wesley Tiffles, "but advise you to keep shy of him for the future, I was about to say that he bit me through the leg of my trowsers. And on that very instant, as if by inspiration, I caught not the hydrophobia, but a magnificent idea. Having got on my pins, I kicked the dog into his front yard, and immediately worked the idea into shape. You'll be sure to like it."
"Which would be very benevolent to the dogs; and, regarded from their point of view, your idea is a noble one," thoughtfully observed Marcus Wilkeson. "But I don't, at this moment, exactly see how you are benefited by it." Mr. Tiffles smiled with the consciousness of power, and chidingly said: "You are dull this morning, Mark quite dull. Strike, but hear!
"Well, sir, what do you want?" said Tiffles. "If you please, sir," said the singular being, in a cracked voice, "yure the pannyrarmer, a'n't ye?" "Not exactly, my lad, but I own it. And who are you?" "My name's Stoop, if you please, sir." Mr. Boolpin broke out with a laugh, which made the building reverberate. "It's the village idiot," said he.
Tiffles remonstrated, entreated, suggested compromises, but all to no purpose. Boolpin was iron. The best arrangement that Tiffles could make, was to postpone the final settlement of the terms until after the performance. To that, Boolpin had not the least objection. "One thing more," said Boolpin. "If there is a row, and any seats or windows are broken, you are to pay the damages."
In the ante-room, Miss Philomela saw Overtop and Maltboy, upon whom she bestowed a half smile, and Tiffles, whom she treated to a cordial grimace, not unmingled with a blush. Tiffles, on his part, was profoundly polite, and inquired if she were going home. Learning that she was, he remarked that he had occasion to walk in the same direction, and accompanied her as she left the station house.
But remember your solemn promise. I had no hand in the painting of it." "Not a little finger, my dear fellow," cheerfully replied Tiffles, who had given the artist similar assurances of secrecy five times that morning. At that moment a hand touched Tiffles familiarly on the shoulder. He turned suddenly, for he was always expecting rear attacks from creditors. He saw Marcus Wilkeson.
Wesley Tiffles had, as usual, something enlivening to tell. "Got the funniest piece of news for you, my dear fellow!" said he. "Anything funny is always welcome, Tiffles," said he, closing his folio, that he might not appear to obstruct his friend's jocosity.
A hoarse voice screamed, "Gorryfus! Gosh thunder! By jimminy!" The curtain was jerked aside, and Stoop rushed into the hall like a fury. Coming out of a place partly lighted into one totally dark, his first move was to run blindly into Tiffles, nearly knocking that gentleman off his legs. "Hold on, Stoop! Hold on!" shouted Tiffles, with what was left of his breath.
Mash, the cook, who was at that moment reading the fifteenth chapter of "The Buttery and the Boudoir: A Tale of Real Life," in her favorite weekly, threw down the paper in a passion, bounded up stairs, and admitted John Wesley Tiffles, or Wesley Tiffles, as he always subscribed himself on promissory notes and other worthless paper. Mr. And he was right.
Look a little farther on, as the canvas unrolls, and you will observe the white tusk of a rhinoceros protruding from the jungle with wonderful effect. Why? The two animals are advancing toward each other for mortal combat." "I shall describe their terrific struggles," interrupted Tiffles. "Have read up Buffon for it."
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