“Law!” said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how to command,—“law! Did ye ever know a poor man yet was the better for law, or for a lawyer? Will Mr. Finney ever be as good to you, Job, as that man has been? Will he see to you when you’re sick, and comfort you when you’re wretched? Will he——”

“No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights! he won’t do that, will he?” asked Handy: and laughing at the severity of his own wit, he and his colleagues retired, carrying with them, however, the now powerful petition.

There is no help for spilt milk; and Mr. Bunce could only retire to his own room, disgusted at the frailty of human nature—Job Skulpit scratched his head—Jonathan Crumple again remarked, that, “for sartain, sure a hundred a year was very nice”—and Billy Gazy again rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered that “he didn’t know.”