"Show me your warrant!" said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end; "perhaps it isn't regular?" "Ask him who he is?" suggested Thames. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you from me. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. But I was portentous, I can assure you. I suppose I believe in God.
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