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So late yesterday we arrived at a solitary pothouse, the filth of which no pen can describe.

Why prose should lag behind its sister arts I can't say; possibly because every pothouse politician is supposed to speak it.

"Don't attempt to soften me with pothouse endearments," said John, fiercely.

She looked at the Horace, which still lay open on her lap, and the contrast between the fine scholar's handwriting and the stains of the pothouse had no longer any power to touch her.

I do not believe they ever brawl and fight here at pothouses on Saturday nights, or that the conversation ever advances much beyond “turmuts” and cattle.