_Nutts._ Well, I’ll tell you. For one moment afore the Queen arose, when I looked about me, and saw the officers of state, and the judges, and the bishops, and, above all, the beautiful women, all sparkle and all smiles, seeming angels, only with feathers in their heads and not at their backs--this thought dropped sudden on me, and all for the moment fell into shadow, for I thought, “What a thing is this to think of--_that all of you must die_!” _Slowgoe._ There you are again! Always something bad to say of people above you! [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII. _=NUTTS= reading newspaper; customers drop in._ _Mrs Nutts._ Now, Mr Nutts; will you drag yourself out of that newspaper? I wish there wasn’t such a thing in the world. I’m sure a man with his wife and family oughtn’t to waste his time with newspapers. _Nutts._ (_Laying down paper._) Mrs Nutts--but I’m too melancholy to make a noise. Be quiet, my dear, can’t you, and let me enjoy my wretchedness? How d’ye do, Slowgoe? Servant, Mr Peabody. If I should cut you all round to-day, let it go for nothing; for the fact is, the Chancellor’s “Budget’s” quite put my hand out of order. _Nosebag._ Well, I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard the pints. I did think to have a little more light in my back room, but now the ’tatoes have made it impossible. We’re to have the window-tax still. _Slowgoe._ I must confess it; not that I ever expect anything from the Whigs--still I did look for some fall in soap. I thought washing might be made a little cheaper; but, as you say, Mr Nutts, the taxes keep us still in our dirt. _Peabody._ And then in the matter of tea---- _Mrs Nutts._ What’s that about tea? _Nutts._ Of course. Put politics in a teapot, and you women will listen to ’em directly. Why, the tea won’t come down a halfpenny. And why not? Because of the ’tatoes. The potato’s the real root of evil. _Peabody._ And the first is--eight millions of money for Ireland. Eight millions more of debt to be laid upon the innocent shoulders of unborn babes. _Mrs Nutts._ Dear little creturs! _Nutts._ Still it can’t be helped. As a policeman and once a schoolmaster, you must own this, Mr Peabody, the famishing must be fed.