_Jack_--Said Nokes was convicted upon the said statute.
_Jack_--Motion in arrest of judgment, made by Counselor Puzzle. First, because the field from whence the cow was conveyed is laid in the indictment _as round_, but turned out upon proof to be _square_.
_Serjeant_--That's well. A valid objection.
_Jack_--Secondly, because in said indictment the color of the cow is called red; there being no such things _in rerum natura_ as red cows, no more than black lions, spread eagles, flying griffins, or blue boars.
_Jack_--Thirdly, said Nokes has not offended against form of the statute; because stealing of _cattle_ is there provided against: whereas we are only convicted of stealing a _cow_. Now, though cattle may be cows, yet it does by no means follow that cows must be cattle.
_Serjeant_--Bravo, bravo! buss me, you rogue; you are your father's own son! go on and prosper. I am sorry, dear Jack, I must leave thee. If Providence but sends thee life and health, I prophesy thou wilt wrest as much land from the owners, and save as many thieves from the gallows, as any practitioner since the days of King Alfred.
_Jack_--I'll do my endeavor. [_Exit Serjeant._]
SIR LUKE--A pox o' your law; you make me lose sight of my story. One morning a Welsh coach-maker came with his bill to my lord, whose name was unluckily Lloyd. My lord had the man up: "You are called, I think, Mr. Lloyd?"--"At your Lordship's service, my lord."--"What, Lloyd with an L?"--"It was with an L indeed, my lord."--"Because in your part of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Floyd were synonymous, the very same names."--"Very often indeed, my Lord."--"But you always spell yours with an L?"--"Always."--"That, Mr. Lloyd, is a little unlucky; for you must know I am now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years you might have come in with an F; but I am afraid I can give you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha!"
A physician of Bath told him that he had a mind to publish his own poems; but he had so many irons in the fire he did not well know what to do.
"Then take my advice, doctor," said Foote, "and put your poems where your irons are."
Following a man in the street, who did not bear the best of characters, Foote slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, thinking he was an intimate friend. On discovering his mistake he cried out, "Oh, sir, I beg your pardon! I really took you for a gentleman who--"