'Business hangs to swing at every City door, like a ragshop Doll, on the gallows of overproduction.

Stocks and Shares are hollow nuts not a squirrel of the lot would stop to crack for sight of the milky kernel mouldered to beard.
Percentage, like a cabman without a fare, has gone to sleep inside his vehicle.

Dividend may just be seen by tiptoe: stockholders, twinkling heels over the far horizon.

Too true!--and our merchants, brokers, bankers, projectors of Companies, parade our City to remind us of the poor steamed fellows trooping out of the burst-boiler-room of the big ship Leviathan, in old years; a shade or two paler than the crowd o' the passengers, apparently alive and conversible, but corpses, all of them to lie their length in fifteen minutes.' 'And you, Fenellan ?' cried his host, inspired for a second bottle by the lovely nonsense of a voluble friend wound up to the mark.
'Doctor of the ship! with this prescription!' Mr.Fenellan held up his glass.
'Empty ?' Mr.Fenellan made it completely so.

'Confident!' he affirmed.
An order was tossed to the waiter, and both gentlemen screwed their lips in relish of his heavy consent to score off another bottle from the narrow list.
'At the office in forty minutes,' Skepsey's master nodded to him and shot him forth, calling him back: 'By the way, in case a man named Jarniman should ask to see me, you turn him to the rightabout.' Skepsey repeated: 'Jarniman!' and flew.
'A good servant,' Mr.Radnor said.