sing in the choir--else why have you done the same yourself?"

"Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," said Ben
Winthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the Squire used
to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing the "Red
Rovier"; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my
little lad Aaron, he's got a gift--he can sing a tune off
straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you'd
better stick to your "Amens": your voice is well enough when you
keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as isn't right made for
music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk."

This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke
to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt by
everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram.

"I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep
cool any longer. "There's a consperacy to turn me out o' the
choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money--that's where it
is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be put upon by
no man."

"Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll pay you your share
to keep out of it--that's what we'll do. There's things folks 'ud
pay to be rid on, besides varmin."

"Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that paying people for
their absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's a
joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take.
You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree wi'