"You won't fight for them," said the Radical, triumphantly; "I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord," said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, "some more ale--he won't fight for his friends." "A white feather," said his companion. "He! he!" tittered the man in black. "Landlord, landlord!" shouted the Radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. "Who called?" said the landlord, coming in at last. "Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it." "Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it." "Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," said I, and struck the table with my fist. "Take some?" said the landlord, inquiringly. "No," said I, "only something came into my head." "He's mad," said the man in black. "Not he," said the Radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business." The landlord looked at the Radical, and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with beer before the Radical, and the glass with gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. "Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the one in black; "I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his 'Register.'" The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church." "Whom does it persecute?" said I. The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, "The Catholics." "And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I. "Never," said the man in black. "Did you ever read 'Fox's Book of Martyrs'?" said I. "He! he!" tittered the man in black, "there is not a word of truth in 'Fox's Book of Martyrs.'"