Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you'll lose your place, Sir." Mr.Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar.

The clerks outside were pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun.

The young man was dressed extremely well.

He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days.

Mr.Abel Newt, to his father's eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr.Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt.
As his father entered, Mr.Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew, "Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life." The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered, "Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d----d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too.