Why Mrs. Piper has got a good deal to say, chiefly in parenthesis and without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the court, (which her husband is a cabinet maker,) and it has long been well be known among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one before the half-baptising of Alexander James Piper, aged eighteen months and four days old, on account of not being expected to live, such was the suffering of that child, gentlemen, in his genus) as the Plaintive—so Mrs. Piper insists calling the deceased—was reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the Plaintive’s air in which that report originatin. See the Plaintive often, and considered his air was fearinocious, and not being allowed to go about, some children being timid, (and if doubted, hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard, for she is here and will do credit to her husband, and herself and family.) Has seen the Plaintive wexed and worrited by the children, (for children they will ever be, and you cannot expect them, specially if of playful dispositions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself.) On accounts of this and his dark looks, has often dreamed as she see him take a pickaxe from his pocket and split Johnny’s head, (which the child knows not fear, and has repetually called after him close at his eels). Never however, see the Plaintive take a pickaxe or any wepping far from it. Has seen him hurry away when run or called after, as if not partial to children, and never see him speak to neither child or grown up person at any time, (except the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner, which if he was here, would tell you that he has been seen a speaking to him frequent.) Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle no, sir, he is not here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. Oh! Here’s the boy, gentlemen! Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now boy! But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary paces. Name, Jo. Nothing else that be knows on. Don’t know that everybody has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don’t know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for _him_. _He_ don’t find no fault with it. No lather, no mother, no friends. Never been to school. What’s home? Knows a broom’s a broom, and knows its wicked to tell a lie. Don’t recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but he knows both. Can’t exactly say what’ll be done to him arter he’s dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it’ll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right—and so he’ll tell the truth. “This won’t do, gentlemen” says the coroner, with a melancholy shake of the head.