Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable terror and a half-subdued "O Lord! Oh, dear me!" Nor in his apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old bird of the crow species.
"Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the person his twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done."
The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a "mission" for holding horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and retires.
"My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!"
His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.

Grandfather Smallweed looks at Phil with considerable terror; for Phil, who has never seen him before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand, with the air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off like an ugly old crow.
"My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be so kind as to carry me to the fire? I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!"
This exclamation is jerked out of him by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.
