'
Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to
say was of a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant
had relapsed into a state of abstraction. After some minutes,
however, during which he had reassumed his pen, he appeared to
be again aware of the presence of his clients; raising his head
from the paper, he said, rather snappishly--
'Who is with me in this case?'
'Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,' replied the attorney.
'Phunky--Phunky,' said the Serjeant, 'I never heard the name
before. He must be a very young man.'
'Yes, he is a very young man,' replied the attorney. 'He was
only called the other day. Let me see--he has not been at the Bar
eight years yet.'
'Ah, I thought not,' said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying
tone in which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little
child. 'Mr. Mallard, send round to Mr.--Mr.--' 'Phunky's--
Holborn Court, Gray's Inn,' interposed Perker. (Holborn Court,
by the bye, is South Square now.) 'Mr. Phunky, and say I should
be glad if he'd step here, a moment.'
Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant
Snubbin relapsed into abstraction until Mr.
Pages:
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780