On the upper floors of a shop in the Strand, between Wellington Street and
the Savoy, is a well-known maker of fowling-pieces, who gave me a terrible
start the other day; and probably not me alone, but many passers-by who
chanced to look upwards at his windows. For he is at the moment advertising
the most undesirable article in the world, a commodity for which I can
conceive of no demand whatever. Yet there--the result of the caprice of
adhesive cement or the desire of one letter of the alphabet to get level
with its neighbour and be dropped too--the amazing notice is, in
conspicuous white enamel:--
SECOND HAND
UNS.
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