Tickle. Well, I’d a droll dream about them a night or two ago. I’d been reading a police case and fell asleep, and I dreamt that I saw the three of ’em, with their crowns upon their heads, put into a police-van. And then I thought I saw a policeman in a coat of blue fire—no reflections on you, Mr Peabody—jump upon the steps, and heard him bang to the door, and cry out with a jolly loud voice, “All right, Newgate!”
Slowgoe. Well, I’m not a cruel person; but if order’s to be at all respected, I’d hang any man for dreaming a dream like that.
Tickle. And then I thought the three crowned heads—and how often has Fortin crowned where she ought to have bonneted!—the three crowned heads was put upon a cast-iron treadmill; and as they went up and up, it grew warmer and warmer, till at last it was red-hot.
Slowgoe. If this conversation is continued I must leave the shop.
Tickle. And then, after a little while, I thought I saw the crowned heads put upon a bench pickin’ oakum—no; it was a lot of little snakes in knots which the crowned heads couldn’t separate; and which the more they was picked the more they stung—and didn’t the crowned heads all blow and blow, as if they’d well burnt their precious fingers!
Mrs Nutts. Don’t talk in that way, Mr Tickle; it isn’t like a Christian; ’specially with such company as kings. For after all, poor things! they mayn’t know better.
Nutts. And after all—I do confess it—since I’ve seen Prince Albert’s pigs at the cattle-show, I do feel a greater respect for all sorts of royalty.
Tickle. Well, I must say it, and I don’t mean any joke, but in the respect that’s got from prize pigs there must be a good deal of gammon.
Slowgoe. Here’s the account (reads): “Pigs of any breed, above twenty-six and under fifty-two weeks old.—H.R.H. Prince Albert, of Windsor Castle, a pair of three forty-one-weeks-old Bedfordshire pigs, bred by H.R.H. and fed on corn, meal, milk, and potatoes.—Second prize, £5.”
Mrs Nutts. And you can’t think it, Mr Slowgoe, such loves! I could have nursed ’em!