In fact, he'd brought Dawkins to these chambers for that very porpos, thinking to have him under his eye, and strip him at leisure.
My master very soon found out what was Mr.Blewitt's game.

Gamblers know gamblers, if not by instink, at least by reputation; and though Mr.
Blewitt moved in a much lower speare than Mr.Deuceace, they knew each other's dealins and caracters puffickly well.
"Charles you scoundrel," says Deuceace to me one day (he always spoak in that kind way), "who is this person that has taken the opsit chambers, and plays the flute so industrusly ?" "It's Mr.Dawkins, a rich young gentleman from Oxford, and a great friend of Mr.Blewittses, sir," says I; "they seem to live in each other's rooms." Master said nothink, but he GRIN'D--my eye, how he did grin.

Not the fowl find himself could snear more satannickly.
I knew what he meant: Imprimish.

A man who plays the floot is a simpleton.
Secknly.

Mr.Blewitt is a raskle.
Thirdmo.