Nutts. Yes; that’s Charter and the Five Pints. My wife—jest like the Whigs—wanted to drown all the five afore they could see. They’re not very strong; a little back’ard, it must be owned, jest yet; but shouldn’t wonder if some on ’em don’t catch mice some day. Here—as Parliament’s going to begin, I bought another, what I call, a party, yesterday. Here—here! (Whistles.)
Nosebag. Why, it’s a dog, a turnspit; and, I declare, quite a puppy.
Nutts. Yes; that’s Young England.
Slowgoe. A most intelligent, beautiful little animal. That’s the only dog I care for, for that’s a dog that reminds me of what England was in her good old times of hospitality: in those happy days when there were no smoke-jacks, or any such new-fangled inventions to roast good honest English beef with; nothing but a national animal like that to sit upon his faithful hind legs, and turn and turn the noble surloin. Ha! there’s no such beef now.
Tickle. But I say, Nutts, you don’t make Young England there turn your spit, do you?
Nutts. Lor’ bless you! no. Still, somehow, the thing’s bred in the cretur; for whenever missus hangs down a jint to roast, doesn’t Young England get as close as he can to it? and then sitting up and begging like, doesn’t he look with one eye upon the meat as it browns, and the other on the sops in the pan?
Slowgoe. A very clever dog, no doubt.
Nutts. Why, yes; he can understand sops in the pan as well as any on ’em.
Limpy. And how does he and the cats agree?
Nutts. Why, middlin’. Whig spits and sets up her back at him, and won’t be friends nohow. Poor old Tory dozes away, and rayther likes him; whilst Charter seems to treat him with silent contempt; and the little Five Pints play with his tail as if it was no more than my wife’s thread-paper.