I hoped-- "I suppose you've done," said Doubleday, looking round at this point; "if so you can hook it." "I haven't quite," said I, dashing back to my work.
I finished at last, and before Jack had come out of the inner-room too.
I handed my papers to Doubleday, who looked at them critically.
"Well," he said, "that's a pretty show.

Have a look at this, Wallop, I say.

Your youngest grandchild could make his sevens nearly as well as that!" As Mr Wallop was about eighteen years old, I ventured to regard this language as figurative on the part of Mr Doubleday, and trusted the sevens were not quite as bad as he made out.
"All right," said Doubleday, "you can cut home to your mother-in-law.
You'll probably hear no more about it.

There's millions of other loafers after the berth." "When will I know ?" I faltered.
"Let's see, this is the nineteenth century, ain't it?
Call again about the year two thousand.

February the thirty-first's the most convenient day for us, we're all at home then.