Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper feebly, and groaned.
"Moggridge, old man—"
"Sam!"
"What a pair of asses we have been!
"The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.
"I know," nodded Sam; "is it true, d'ye think?"
"My heart forebodes," said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further— "my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal—"
"Pooh!" broke in Sam; "stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I know, but after all I'm the sufferer."
The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him.
"I carried the bag up to Five Lanes; I put the infernal stuff into her very hands; I—"