"I vant Lort Cornvallis;" said the horrid bootmaker. "His lortship belongs, I know, to dis honorable school, for I saw him vid de boys at church, yesterday."
"Lord who?"
"Vy, Lord Cornvallis to be sure—a very fat young nobleman, vit red hair, he squints a little, and svears dreadfully."
"There's no Lord Cornvallis here;" said one—and there was a pause.
"Stop! I have it;" says that odious Bunting, "It must be Stubbs;" and "Stubbs! Stubbs!" every one cried out, while I was so busy at my book as not to hear a word.
At last, two of the biggest chaps rushed into the school-room, and seizing each an arm, run me into the play-ground—bolt up against the shoemaker.
"Dis is my man—I beg your lortship's pardon," says he, "I have brought your lortship’s shoes, vich you left—see, dey have been in dis parcel ever since you vent avay in my boots."
