Poor BUGGINS! He's nuts upon HENERY GEORGE, WILLIAM MORRIS, and such. He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. _Him_ born free and equal? Great Scott! 'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot. Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't exist, Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist. It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. _Is_ men equal in muscle and pith? Arsk BISMARCK and DERBY, dear boy, or arsk JACKSON the Black and JEM SMITH. There'd be precious few larks if they wos, CHARLIE--where'd be the chance of a spree If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me? It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun--for the ups. Equal? Yus, as old BARNUM and BUGGINS, or tigers and tarrier pups. He's a long-winded lot, is BUCHANAN, slops over tremenjous, he do; Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few, Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher know, But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so ROBERT, my nabs, it's no go. Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up. Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp. 'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me, But to fancy as them as _has_ got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee. Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay they did. Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid! Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish _I_'d a spanking estate Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the slate. No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the nobs, Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S. As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy. Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to enjoy. Life's a great game of grab, fur's _I_ see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well, _call_ it that. If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat. There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each, It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at the peach. _High priori_ hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot. Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot! "Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's religion and law; Pooty fakes! But when _sharing's_ the word they ain't in it with sheer tooth and claw.