upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that
talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in
the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by
the following conversation, preserved it.

'Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?' inquired the
hairdresser of the stomach.

'Where's your security, Mr. Clip?'

'My stock in trade,--there's enough of it, I'm thinking, Mr.
Thicknesse. Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks,
and a dead Bruin.'

'No, I won't, then,' growled out Thicknesse. 'I lends nothing on
the security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs,
they're cheats; as for the Poles, they've got no cash. I never
have nothing to do with blockheads, unless I can't awoid it
(ironically), and a dead bear's about as much use to me as I could
be to a dead bear.'

'Well, then,' urged the other, 'there's a book as belonged to Pope,
Byron's Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it's got Pope's
identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for
security?'

'Well, to be sure!' cried the baker. 'But how d'ye mean, Mr.
Clip?'

'Mean! why, that it's got the HOTTERGRUFF of Pope.