"
"In possession of what?" says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville,
leaning out of the carriage-window. She hated black Tuggeridge, as she
called him, like poison: the very first week of our coming to Portland
Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate which he said was
his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told
him to quit the house. Since then there had been law squabbles between
us without end, and all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.
"Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam," roars he, "left me
by my father's will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and
know as well as I do."
"Old Tug left no will," shrieked Jemmy; "he didn't die to leave his
estates to blackamoors--to negroes--to base-born mulatto story-tellers;
if he did may I be -----"
"Oh, hush! dearest mamma," says Jemimarann. "Go it again, mother!" says
Tug, who is always sniggering.
"What is this business, Mr. Tuggeridge?" cried Tagrag (who was the only
one of our party that had his senses). "What is this will?"
"Oh, it's merely a matter of form," said the lawyer, riding up. "For
heaven's sake, madam, be peaceable; let my friends, Higgs, Biggs, and
Blatherwick, arrange with me. I am surprised that none of their people
are here.
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