10.25.—A stout, large Q.C., with luxuriant cheek-whiskers has just entered the row in front. Mister Smartle whispers to me that this is Witherington, whom I refused to engage, and who is now in opposition.
I have taken the undue liberty to pluck him by the sleeve and introduce myself in straightforward English style to his honourable notice, acquainting him that his unfortunate client had a very flimsy case, and was not deserving of success, while myself was a meritorious Native Neophyte, whose entire fortune was impaled on a stake, and urging him not to show too windy a temper to such a shorn lamb as his petitioner.
However, he has declined rather peremptorily to lend me his ears, nor can I induce his learned junior, who is my next neighbour, to show me any fraternal kindness. My said solicitor is highly indignant at my treatment, and warns me in an undertone that I am not to make any further overtures to such stuck-up individuals.
10.30.—Hon'ble Mister Justice Honeygallenters in highly dignified fashion. He is of a bland, benignant, and intensely clean aspect, which uplifts my downfallen heart, for it is obvious, from his benevolent and smiling bow to myself that he already feels a paternal interest in my achieving the conquest of my spurs.
The jury are taking the oath. Whether any of my co-contributors to Punch are among them I cannot discover, since they do not vouchsafe
