The typical London merchant is dick whittington, whose history was blazoned in the cheap books for all to read.
In some mysterious but nevertheless direct fashion dick whittington was coming to Polchester.
Big Ben chimed twelve and there was a distinct dick whittington touch about the music.
Philip laid aside a bow and arrow upon which he had been busily working since supper and summoned dick whittington.
Even poor dick whittington could not wholly resist the cheering influence of that bright summer morning.
He slept through his wooing and he slept through his wedding and I gave him the hay and the cart and dick whittington.
He was a species of dick whittington whose spirit was touched to finer issues than a mere material gain.
That was the sort of cat that brought the great dick whittington, of turn again memory, his fortune.
Rich as he was, this merchant never forgot that he was once poor dick whittington.
More than five hundred years ago there was a little boy named dick whittington, and this is true.
The story is an old one, told under other names throughout Europe, of a poor boy who sends a cat he had bought for a penny as his stake in a trading voyage; the captain sells it on his behalf for a fortune to a foreign king whose palace is overrun by rats. The hero devotes part of his windfall to charity, which may be why the legend attached in England since 16c. to Sir Richard Whittington (d.1423), three times Lord Mayor of London, who died childless and devoted large sums in his will to churches, almshouses, and St. Bartholomew's Hospital.