The Chimes
than the hothouse pine-apple. Taking into account the number of animals slaughtered yearly within the bills of mortality alone; and forming a low estimate of the quantity of tripe which the carcases of those animals, reasonably well butchered, would yield; I find that the waste on that amount of tripe, if boiled, would victual a garrison of five hundred men for five months of thirty-one days each, and a February over. The Waste, the Waste!”
Trotty stood aghast, and his legs shook under him. He seemed to have starved a garrison of five hundred men with his own hand.
“Who eats tripe?” said Mr. Filer, warmly. “Who eats tripe?” Trotty made a miserable bow.
“You do, do you?” said Mr. Filer. “Then I’ll tell you something. You snatch your tripe, my friend, out of the mouths of widows and orphans.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Trotty, faintly. “I’d sooner die of want!”
“Divide the amount of tripe before-mentioned, Alderman,” said Mr. Filer, “by the estimated number of existing widows and orphans, and the result will be one pennyweight of tripe to each. Not a grain is left for that man. Consequently, he’s a robber.”
Trotty was so shocked, that it gave him no concern to see the Alderman finish the tripe himself. It was a relief to get rid of it, anyhow.
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