"No bigger round than the calf of my leg." And I suppose he only spoke the truth.
He continued thus to give me much good advice, to which, no doubt, had I been prudent, I should have listened with entire faith.

But my friend, like other worldly wiseacres, had many theories which he himself failed to put into practice.

And as he spoke there was a twinkle in his eye, and a tone of scepticism in his voice, as if he knew that he was but whistling to the wind.
Then John Turner fell to abusing Miste and Giraud and the late poor Vicomte as a parcel of knaves and fools.
"Here am I," he cried, "with a bundle of my signatures being hawked about the world by a thief, and cannot stop one of them.

Every one knows that my paper is good; the drafts will be negotiated from pillar to post like a Bank of England note, and the account will not be closed for years." It was a vexatious matter for so distinguished a banker to be mixed in, and I could give him but little comfort.

While I was still with him, however, a letter was brought to me which enlightened us somewhat.