"The only irons pardonable in your eyes, Ned," said Tomlinson, "are the
curling-irons, eh?"

"Now, if this is not too much!" cried Nabbem, crossly; "you objects to go
in a cart like the rest of your profession; and when I puts myself out of
the way to obleedgie you with a shay, you slangs I for it!"

"Peace, good Nabbem!" said Augustus, with a sage's dignity; "you must
allow a little bad humour in men so unhappily situated as we are."

The soft answer turneth away wrath. Tomlinson's answer softened Nabbem;
and by way of conciliation, he held his snuff-box to the nose of his
unfortunate prisoner. Shutting his eyes, Tomlinson long and earnestly
sniffed up the luxury, and as soon as, with his own kerchief of spotted
yellow, the officer had wiped from the proboscis some lingering grains,
Tomlinson thus spoke:

"You see us now, Mr. Nabbem, in a state of broken-down opposition; but
our spirits are not broken too. In our time we have had something to do
with the administration; and our comfort at present is the comfort of
fallen ministers!"

"Oho! you were in the Methodist line before you took to the road?" said
Nabbem.

"Not so!" answered Augustus, gravely. "We were the Methodists of
politics, not of the church; namely, we lived upon our flock without a
legal authority to do so, and that which the law withheld from us our
wits gave. But tell me, Mr. Nabbem, are you addicted to politics?"