Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. " "Faix, then we'll do it in style," cried the fellow.
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