factory sense that the hitherto shadowy Reform had at length come to Sproxton in a good round shape, with broadcloth and pockets. Felix did not intend to accept the treating, but he chose to stay and hear, taking his pint as usual.
"Capital ale, capital ale," said Mr Johnson, as he set down his glass, speaking in a quick, smooth treble. "Now," he went on, with a certain pathos in his voice, looking at Mr Chubb, who sat opposite, "there's some satisfaction to me in finding an establishment like this at the Pits. For what would higher wages do for the working man if he couldn't get a good article for his money? Why, gentlemen"—here he looked round—"I've been into ale-houses where I've seen a fine fellow of a miner or a stone-cutter come in and have to lay down money for beer that I should be sorry to give to my pigs!" Here Mr Johnson leaned forward with squared elbows, hands placed on his knees, and a defiant shake of the head.
"Aw, like at the Blue Cow," fell in the irrepressible Dredge, in a deep bass; but he was rebuked by a severe nudge from Brindle.
"Yes, yes, you know what it is, my friend," said Mr Johnson, looking at Dredge, and restoring his self-satisfaction. "But it won't last much longer,
