_Slowgoe._ Well, he’s married all his sons now--that’s a comfort. _Nutts._ Not a bit on it; for hasn’t he got relays of grandchildren? Now I don’t want this to be known all over the Dials, but the fact is, at this very moment--I have the news from a Moor that sweeps the crossing in Broad Street--at this moment he’s sent to Mr Besson, his journeyman lucifer-match maker, to go off at once to Morocco, and ask the Emperor to let any one of his hundred little daughters marry the Count of Paris, and to keep all the benefit of her gold-dust and di’monds, and the M’ometan religion. And, moreover, his Majesty promises to build a mosque for the young lady in the ’Lysian Fields, I believe they call ’em, with a mufty on the top of it, to call her every morning to prayers. _Slowgoe._ Humph! we must mind what we’re arter in the Mediterranean. Not that I think the Emperor of Morocco will consent to the matter; in which case Louis Philippe---- _Nutts._ Doesn’t care a pin; acause he then intends to apply for a daughter to Mr Abdel Kader. And when the Count of Paris has married her, his little brother is to have a wife from Ireland. _Slowgoe._ Why, there’s no princesses there! _Nutts._ Isn’t there? Louis Philippe knows better than that. So he’s sent over to invite any of the five hundred gentlemen with daughters, all undeniably come from Irish kings; and when he’s picked out a bride, he’ll marry his grandson to the child, and in her right take possession o’ the Emerald Isle! Queen Victoria doesn’t know it; but never was a young woman robbed by a nice-looking old gentleman in any omnibus as she’s been rifled by Louis Philippe. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. _Nutts._ (_Stropping razor._) Can’t think what’s come to my razor. Won’t cut nohow. _Slowgoe._ I’ve often told you, Mr Nutts, nothing is as it was. The world’s gettin’ old; and the iron, which we may look upon as the bones of the world, is going first. But what was to be expected from so many railroads? The earth’s exhausted, sir, by the persumption of man. I’ve been readin’ all about it, and I should say, as a man of business, the world isn’t worth fifty years’ purchase. _Nutts._ Like my wife--looks very well for age, for all that. _Mrs Nutts._ (_From parlour._) Better let your wife alone, Mr Nutts, and provide for your family. _Nutts._ But if, Mr Slowgoe, we aren’t to get any more iron, what are we to do for swords and armour in the next Spanish war? You know as the happy couple’s married--the Prince and the Infant lady, I mean--who can say how soon the fighting may begin? _Slowgoe._ (_Very solemnly._) Nobody!