quickly fastened

“Lost something here?” cried Mary. “Why here? when you reeled out of this house, you couldn’t scarce walk, and you almost fell into the gutter, which I have seen you there before. Get away, and go home!You are not sober yet, you horrible man!”On this, clinging on to the area-railings, and demeaning himself like a madman, Hunt continued to call out, “Police, police! I have been robbed, I’ve been robbed! Police!” until astonished heads appeared at various windows in the quiet street, and a policeman actually came up　.







When the policeman appeared, Hunt began to sway and pull at the door, confined by it’s chain: and he frantically reiterated his charge, that he had been robbed and hocussed in that house, that night, by Mrs. Brandon. The policeman, by a familiar expression, conveyed his utter disbelief of the statement, and told the dirty, disreputable man to move on, and go to bed. Mrs. Brandon was known and respected all round the neighbourhood. She had befriended numerous poor round about; and was known for a hundred charities. She attended many respectable families. In that parish there was no woman more esteemed. And by the word “ Gammon,” the policeman expressed his sense of the utter absurdity of the charge against the good lady. Hunt still continued to yell out that he had been robbed and hocussed; and Mary from behind her door repeated to the officer (with whom she perhaps had relations not unfriendly) her statement that the beast had gone reeling away from the house the night before, and if he had lost anything, who knows where he might not have lost it　100w box mod?







“It was taken out of this pocket, and out of this pocket-book,” howled Hunt, clinging to the rail. “I give her in charge. I give the house in charge! It’s a den of thieves!” During this shouting and turmoil, the sash of a window in Ridley’s studio was thrown up. The painter was going to his morning work. He had appointed an early model. The sun could not rise too soon for Ridley; and, as soon as ever it gave its light, found him happy at his labour. He had heard from his bedroom the brawl going on about the door　elyze.







Mr. Ridley!” says the policeman, touching the glazed hat with much respect — (in fact, and out of uniform, Z 25 has figured in more than one of J. J.’s pictures) — “here’s a fellow disturbing the whole street, and shouting out that Mrs. Brandon have robbed and hocussed him!” Ridley ran downstairs in a high state of indignation. He is nervous, like men of his tribe; quick to feel, to pity, to love, to be angry. He undid the chain, and ran into the street. “I remember that fellow drunk here before,” said the painter; “and lying in that very gutter.” “Drunk and disorderly! Come along!” cries Z 25; and his hand was on the parson’s greasy collar, and under its strong grasp Hunt is forced to move on. He goes, still yelling out that he has been robbed.