"O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank you, my dear friend, that'll do. Oh, dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord!" And Mr. Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.
The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair and falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the philosophical reflection, "The name of your friend in the city begins with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond."
"Did you speak, Mr. George?" inquires the old man.

"O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "Thank you, my dear friend, that'll do." He says this with evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.
The alarming presence, however, subsides into its chair and falls to smoking. 