"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 obleedge 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
