'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.Phunky himself was introduced.
Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man.

He had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being 'kept down' by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be.