Nutts. A bad case. And surely something must be wrong, when starving folks are made, in this way, to turn stones into bread.
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.