Even Sedley's valet, the most solemn and correct of gentlemen, with the muteness and gravity of an undertaker, could hardly keep his countenance in order, as he looked at his unfortunate master.
"Mr.Sedley was uncommon wild last night, sir," he whispered in confidence to Osborne, as the latter mounted the stair.

"He wanted to fight the 'ackney-coachman, sir.

The Capting was obliged to bring him upstairs in his harms like a babby." A momentary smile flickered over Mr.Brush's features as he spoke; instantly, however, they relapsed into their usual unfathomable calm, as he flung open the drawing-room door, and announced "Mr.Hosbin." "How are you, Sedley ?" that young wag began, after surveying his victim.

"No bones broke?
There's a hackney-coachman downstairs with a black eye, and a tied-up head, vowing he'll have the law of you." "What do you mean--law ?" Sedley faintly asked.
"For thrashing him last night--didn't he, Dobbin?
You hit out, sir, like Molyneux.

The watchman says he never saw a fellow go down so straight.