"What is it?" repeated the Landlord, drawing his hand across his chin.

"Yes, what is it?"

The Landlord stooped again, to get a more comprehensive view of vacancy
under the window-blind, and--with an asphyxiated appearance on him as one
unaccustomed to definition--made no answer.

"I'll tell you what I suppose it to be," said the Traveller. "An
abominably dirty thing."

"Mr. Mopes is dirty, it cannot be denied," said the Landlord.

"Intolerably conceited."

"Mr. Mopes is vain of the life he leads, some do say," replied the
Landlord, as another concession.

"A slothful, unsavoury, nasty reversal of the laws of human mature," said
the Traveller; "and for the sake of GOD'S working world and its
wholesomeness, both moral and physical, I would put the thing on the
treadmill (if I had my way) wherever I found it; whether on a pillar, or
in a hole; whether on Tom Tiddler's ground, or the Pope of Rome's ground,
or a Hindoo fakeer's ground, or any other ground."

"I don't know about putting Mr. Mopes on the treadmill," said the
Landlord, shaking his head very seriously. "There ain't a doubt but what
he has got landed property."

"How far may it be to this said Tom Tiddler's ground?" asked the