_Nutts._ Well, that’s a nice compliment for a gen’l’man--bone-polisher to Sir Robert Peel! But certainly Sir John Tyrrel is a good one at a compliment. Didn’t he once say that the Duke of Wellington was the greatest man since our blessed Saviour? He did, as I’m a sinner. And if Sir John is very red in the face, which he ought to be, it is because he hasn’t done blushing ever since. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. _=Nutts= lathering a customer; others waiting. Enter_ Little Girl. _Nutts._ Now, my little dear, what’s for you? _Girl._ Please, Mr Nutts, my mother says you’ve sent the wrong front. This is a red un, and mother’s is a light brown. _Nutts._ Oh! if she says it’s red, I know it isn’t hers. Now the lady as that belongs to calls it auburn. Not that I should like to walk with her into a powder-magazine with her wearing it. _Girl._ And please, my mother says she hopes the curls are a little tighter than---- _Nutts._ Tighter! You tell that blessed widow, your mother, that they’re just what she wants--tight enough to hold a second husband. I know the man; and though I’ve no grudge agin him, I curled ’em a-purpose. _Limpy._ Why, isn’t that Mrs Trodsam’s little girl? And the woman going to be married agin? _Nutts._ In course. When her husband died she vowed she’d go into weeds and her own grey hairs for life. That’s barely a twelvemonth ago; and now the weeds are gone, and she wears marigolds in her cap, to catch the milkman. I don’t know who’d have a widder! Seven times have I curled that front in three weeks. _Slowgoe._ (_With newspaper._) Well, this is a pretty bus’ness, this Religious ’Pinions Bill. Going to make friends with the Pope! Going to let him send his bulls into the country, as many as he likes. Well, I don’t know; but I should think the British Lion--if he’s got a war life in him--won’t stand that. _Tickle._ That’s nothin’. They say we’re goin’ to send a ’bassador to Rome, and Sir Randrews Agnew’s to be ’pinted to the post. Oh, isn’t the Pope a--a-gammin’ us! He’s a-goin’ to buy down railroads right and left. Now what do you think the rails are for? _Slowgoe._ Why, for steam-ingines. _Tickle._ Not a bit on it. I know somebody as knows Colonel Sibthorpe’s footman as knows all about it. The Pope intends to get up a fancy fair in Rome for the conversion of the Jews. Well, this will fill Rome with English dowagers, taking all their pincushions ready-made with them. And when they get there, the rails (_they’re made o’ purpose_) will be taken up and turned into gridirons; and won’t the Papishes roast us agin, as they did in Smithfield? _Slowgoe._ No doubt on it. This comes of giving up good old names. I always thought what would come of it when we left off calling the Pope the Scarlet---- _Nutts._ Mr Slowgoe, allow me to say that my wife--Mrs Nutts--is only in the next room.