Moody had muttered to his friend Handy, "by an old fool saying that he can write his own name like his betters."
"Well, Job," said Handy, trying to impart to his own sour, ill-omened visage a smile of approbation, in which he greatly failed; "so you're ready now, Mr. Finney says; here's the place, d'ye see,"—and he put his huge brown finger down on the dirty paper,—"name or mark, it's all one. Come along, old boy; if so be we're to have the spending of this money, why the sooner the better—that's my maxim."
"To be sure," said Moody; "we a'n't none of us so young: we can't stay waiting for old Catgut no longer."
It was thus these miscreants named our excellent friend: the nickname he could easily have forgiven, but the allusion to the divine source of all his melodious joy would have irritated even him. Let us hope he never knew the insult.
"Only think, old Billy Gazy," said Spriggs, who rejoiced in greater youth than his brethren, but having fallen into a fire when drunk, had had one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearly burnt off, and who, therefore, in regard to personal appearance, was not the most prepossessing of men; "a hundred a year, and all to spend: only think, old Billy Gazy;" and he gave a hideous grin that showed off his misfortunes to their full extent.
Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm—even these golden prospects did not arouse him to do more than rub his poor old bleared eyes with the cuff of his bedesman's gown, and gently mutter; 'he didn't know, not he; he didn't know.'
"But you'd know, Jonathan," continued Spriggs, turning to the other friend of Skulpit's, who was sitting on a stool by the table, gazing vacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, who had known better days; his means had been wasted by bad children, who had made his life wretched till he had been received into the hospital, of which
