[1839], chapter I, in The Factory Lad. Or, The Life of Simon Smike; Exemplifying the Horrors of White Slavery, London: Printed and published by Thomas White, 59, Wych Street, Strand, →OCLC, page 10, column 1:
When some half dozen of bakers' dozens of constables are to be created, is it not very tiresome that a magistrate shall sit in an easy arm chair, in a snug room, and before a roaring fire, whilst the oath is read to each, and whilst each kisses the book, until the moisture of their breath has saturated with damp, the sheep or calf skin in which the book is packed up? There is something very tedious and unpleasant in all this, and great praise is due to the steward of Squire Screw, for having invented the means by which such annoying forms may be set aside.
"[…] But the police have an idea that I committed—" / "What—for the love of Mike?" / "Murder!" / "Good heavens!" / "And that isn't all, Bob. They've a couple of bakers' dozens of witnesses, all cocked and primed to swear to it!"
