_Nutts._ Now, Mr Slowgoe, when you’ve gone through the alphabet of that paper, I’m ready. _Slowgoe._ Just one minute. _Nutts._ Minutes, Mr Slowgoe, are the small-change of life. Can’t wait for nobody. I’ll take you then, Mr Limpy. (_=Limpy= takes the chair_.) It makes my flesh crawl to see some folks with a newspaper. They go through it for all the world like a caterpillar through a cabbage leaf. _Slowgoe._ Well, for my part, I like to chew my news. I think a newspaper’s like a dinner; doesn’t do you half the good if it’s bolted. Haven’t come to it yet; but tell me--Is it true that the Duke of Wellington’s going to repeal flogging? _Tickle._ Why, yes; they do say so; but the Duke does nothin’ in a hurry. Always likes to take his time. You know at Waterloo he would wait for the Prussians; and only because if he’d licked the French afore, he didn’t know how else to spend the evening. _Slowgoe._ I never heard that; but it’s very like the Duke. And there’s to be no flogging. _Tickle._ No; it’s to be repealed by degrees, like the corn-laws. In nine years’ time there won’t be a single cat in the British army. _Nosebag._ Why should they wait nine years? _Nutts._ Nothin’ but reg’lar. You see the cat-o’-nine-tails is one of the institutions of the country, and therefore must be handled very delicate. When cat’s away Sojers play. That’s been the old notion. And folks--that is, the folks with gold-lace that’s never flogged--think to ’bolish the cat at once would bring a blight upon laurels. They think sojers like eels--none the worse for fire for being well skinned. _Tickle._ There you are; biting the ’thorities of your country agin. But since you’ve taken the story out of my mouth, go on, though every word you speak’s a bitter almond. _Nutts._ Well, it isn’t a thing to talk sugar-plums about, is it? I’m not a young lady, am I? _Mrs Nutts._ (_From back parlour._) I wish you’d remember you’ve a wife and children, Mr Nutts, and never mind young ladies. You can’t shave and talk of young ladies too, I’m sure. _Nutts._ (_In a low voice._) It’s very odd; she’s one of the strongest-minded women, and yet she can never hear me speak of one of the sex without fizzing like a squib. _Nosebag._ (_Solemnly._) Same with ’em all. I suppose it’s love. _Nutts._ Why, it is; that is, it’s jealousy, which is only love with its claws out. _Tickle._ Well, claws brings you to the cat again; so go on. _Nutts._ To be sure. Well, as I was saying----(_To Limpy._) What’s the matter? I’m sure this razor would shave a new-born baby; but for a poor man I don’t know where you got such a delicate skin. I will say this, Mr Limpy, for one of the swinish multitude, you are the tenderest pork I ever shaved. _Slowgoe._ But the Duke of Wellington----