The door of the apostolic snuggery opened. Shambling along with an exaggeration of the way he used to shamble as a young man, followed by a trail of dismal men, most of whom had mutton-chop whiskers, came Caleb Fuller making for the chair of Simon Peter—oblivious presumably of the Popish claims thereby implied. The sons of Zebedee were represented by two grocers in partnership—Messrs. Giddy and Dopping. Andrew suitably had an expatriated Scotsman in the person of Maclozen the chemist. Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, and Thomas were earthily represented by Mr. Hunnybum, Mr. Rabjohn, Mr. Campkin, and Mr. Balmey. The seat of James the Less was Joshua Fuller’s. Simon and Jude found their types of apostolic virtue in Mr. Pavitt and Mr. Pead, and finally Mr. Fricker, a sandy-haired young man who walked the shop of Mr. Rabjohn the draper, followed humbly in the rear as the coopted Matthias, hoping no doubt one day to lead the lot as patriarchally as Mr. Fuller was leading them this morning. “Brethren,” the chief apostle groaned. “I am four score years and two in the sight of the Lord, and my sins are as scarlet.” “Made with chlorate of potash,” muttered Mrs. Fuller, “so bright a scarlet are they.” “Brethren, groan with me.” The Peculiar Children of God groaned lustily. “Brethren, we will now be seated until one of us shall be moved by the Spirit of the Lord to testify.” The congregation rustled down into their seats. The apostles sat down firmly and austerely as became leaders of religion. The congregation remained seated. The apostles rose with a unanimous howl, moved not by the Spirit, but by the fifty tintacks, every one of which, by old Mrs. Fuller’s reckoning when she paid over twenty-five shillings to Bram, must have struck hard home.