"I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him," says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, "I have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you," breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy re-adjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head, "you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand."
"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "may be, I have."
"My dearest friend!"
"May be, I have not."
"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen.

Well, I have nothing but Hawdon's signature. Plague, pestilence and famine upon him," says the old man angrily, "I have half a million of his signatures! But you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter. Anything would suit the purpose, written in his hand."
"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "I may have. Or I may not. 