Mrs Nutts. Mr Peabody, though disgised as a policeman, as I may say, is a gentleman.
Nosebag. Always was, from a child. Heyday! Why, Nutts, how smart the cats look, too!—both on ’em, Whig and Tory. Spick-and-span new collars!
Nutts. Yes; poor brutes! Couldn’t do less, you see. Parliament meets on the nineteenth, and out o’ special compliment to what’s called its wisdom—and considerin’ it’s the new year—I’ve given ’em collars. Whig looks rather serous, doesn’t he?
Tickle. Well, I must say there is a sort of thoughtful look about his whiskers. He does get very like Lord John, somehow.
Nutts. Poor fellow! There is rayther a few mice to catch for him, isn’t there?
Slowgoe. Well, Tory’s the cretur for my money. Really a beautiful animal, and a credit to any house.
Nutts. Why, she has been, to say the hard and serous truth, a very devil in her time. But she’s old, very old, and wheezy now. Teeth’s nearly gone, and claws worn to the stumps. Here, Tory, Tory! Look at her, poor old cretur! All she can do now is to purr; she hasn’t strength enough in her for a good squall of the good old times. Talking of the likeness of Whig and Lord John—do now just observe that Tory; all in a lump of cosy fur, with her eyes half-shut, and her head a leetle on one side, is she not the very spit of the late lamented Lord Eldon?
Slowgoe. (Rising.) So early in the year I should not like to quarrel. No; I should not like to be forced out of the shop. But I cannot, as an Englishman who sticks to his institutions, hear that animal compared to a reverend Lord Chancellor. What! liken catskin to the spotless ermine?
Tickle. Ecod! Considering what ermine’s sometimes done, there hasn’t been much difference between ’em.
Limpy. What, Nutts! Got more cats? A big ’un and, yes, five kittens!