'Two coves in vhite aprons--touches their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence ?" Queer sort, them, and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.' 'What do they do ?' inquired the gentleman.
'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither.

They puts things into old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of.

My father, Sir, wos a coachman.

A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat, to be sure.

His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound.