“’Twould be nice for sojers,” added Fyxington, as he threw away his stump, and very deliberately reached over and helped himself to a fresh cigar, from a number which Mr. Green had just brought from the bar and held in his hand—“I’ll trouble you for a little of your fire,” continued he, taking the cigar from the mouth of Mr. Green, and after obtaining a light, again placing the borrowed Habana within the lips of that worthy individual, who sat stupified at the audacity of the supposed maniac. Fydget gave the conventional grin of thanks peculiar to such occasions, and with a graceful wave of his hand, resumed the thread of his lecture, “’Twould be nice for sojers. Stand ’em all of a row, and whitewash ’em blue or red, according to pattern, as if they were a fence. The gin’rals might look on to see if it was done according to Gunter; the cap’ins might flourish the brush, and the corpulars carry the bucket. Dandies could fix themselves all sorts of streaked and all sorts of colours. When the parterials is cheap and the making don’t cost nothing, that’s what I call economy, and coming as near as possible to first principles. It’s a better way, too, of keeping out the rain, than my t’other plan of flogging people when they’re young, to make their hides hard and waterproof. A good licking is a sound first principle for juveniles, but they’ve got a prejudice agin it.” “Waiter!” cried Cameo Calliper. “Sa!” “Remove the incumbent—expose him to the atmosphere!” “If you hadn’t said that, I’d wopped him,” observed Griffinhoff. “Accordin’ to first principles, I’ve as good a right to be here as anybody,” remarked Fydget, indignantly. “Cut you’ stick, ’cumbent—take you’sef off, trash!” said the waiter, keeping at a respectful distance. “Don’t come near me, Sip,” growled Fydget, doubling his fist—“don’t come near me, or I’ll develope a first principle and ’lucidate a simple idea for you—I’ll give you a touch of natur’ without no gloves on—but I’ll not stay, though I’ve a clear right to do it, unless you are able—yes, sassy able!—to put me out. If there is anything I scorns it’s prejudice, and this room’s so full of it and smoke together that I won’t stay. Your cigar, Sir,” added Fydget, tossing the stump to Mr. Green and retiring slowly. “That fellow’s brazen enough to collect militia fines,” said Brown, “and so thin and bony, that if pasted over with white paper, and rigged athwart ships, he’d make a pretty good sign for an oyster cellar.” The rest of the company laughed nervously, as if not perfectly sure that Fydget was out of hearing. * * * * *