His misfortune was the difficulty with which he uttered himself; even when he got over his nervousness, words came to him only in a rough-and-tumble fashion; he sputtered and fumed and beat his forehead for phrases, then ended with a hearty laugh at his own inarticulateness, Something like this was his talk in the library of nights: 'There's a man called Rapley, an old-clothes dealer--fellow I can't get hold of.

He's hanging midway--what do you call it ?--trimming, with an eye to the best bargain.

Invaluable, if only I could get him, but a scoundrel.

Wants pay, you know; do anything for pay; win the election for me without a doubt, if only I pay him; every blackguard in Dunfield hand and glove with him.

Now pay I won't, yet I'm bound to get that man.
Talked to him yesterday for two hours and thirty-five minutes by the parish church clock, just over his shop--I mean the clock is.