_Nutts._ A bad case. And surely something must be wrong, when starving folks are made, in this way, to turn stones into bread. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. _Nosebag._ (_With paper._) The King of the French seems giving away crosses like winkin’! _Tickle._ Hardly surprised at that. If things don’t take a turn, shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t a good many to spare. Hasn’t sent you anything, eh, Nutts? _Nutts._ Not yet; though I’ve kept a sharp eye for the Parcels Delivery all the week. Considerin’ what a shower of crosses and snuff-boxes is coming down, I don’t well see how a man’s to miss one of ’em. _Slowgoe._ A great man Louis Philippe! He didn’t come at the crown, certainly, in the reg’lar way; but I’m beginning to be reconciled to him, he’s getting so like the Emperor of Rushy and the rest of ’em. Talking about crosses, Mr Nutts, how should you like Louis Philippe’s pictur? _Nutts._ Why, that would entirely depend upon the di’monds. I must say I shouldn’t value it much myself, if the pawnbroker didn’t. _Slowgoe._ Pawn a crowned head, Mr Nutts! But it’s like your levelling ways. _Nutts._ Why, it isn’t often we _can_ turn kings to profit, and one shouldn’t miss a chance. Besides, when the war once began, I should pawn the enemy’s pictur on principle. _Slowgoe._ Pooh! There’ll be no war. Things look a little black at present, but Louis Philippe’s a great man: he’ll smile it all clear again. _Tickle._ They do say he can’t get a bit o’ sleep o’ nights for thinking of the noise in Shee’ness Dockyard: when they’re doing nothing but calking a whole squadron. _Slowgoe._ What for? _Tickle._ Why, in case anything happens, I suppose, to take the Queen of England’s kindest regards to the French Fleet. And they do say, that when the war breaks out, Admiral Joinville has taken a private oath to captur the _Victoria and Albert_, with the Queen and the Prince, and little Wales, and all the royal babbies, and Sir Jeames Clark and Doctor Locock, and the whole of the crew. _Nutts._ Well, I don’t know, for the babbies’ sake, if I should be sorry for it. _Slowgoe._ Why, you traitorous--rebellious!--Mr Peabody, as a policeman, can you bear this? _Peabody._ Yes: anything; I’m not on duty. _Nutts._ Hear me out. Sometimes when I wake o’ nights my heart bleeds for them babbies. Haven’t you all read what Sir Frederick Trench says, that in Buckin’ham Palace the royal children have such small bedrooms that they’re like the little princes smothered in the Tower? Now, if they was to be taken just for two or three years to France, while the new palace was building, they wouldn’t, as it’s now very likely, be stopt in their growth. Only think of a Prince of Wales with not room enough to stretch himself! Now, the King of the French, I’ve no doubt on it, would give ’em all nice roomy quarters at Yow. _Peabody._ Beg your pardon, Mr Nutts; but--Eu! It’s difficult, I know; but--Eu!