"Quite natural, sergeant, because you think to yourself—'These are, after all, brave fellows who want the Reform, they want the Republic. Good—what harm can they do me? Besides, am I not one of the common people, like themselves? Have I not relatives and friends among the common people? I wager a hundred to one that I should be of their opinion, that I should fall in line with them, instead of charging upon them'—"
"That's so true, my old man, that I'm as much for the Republic as yourself, if it can furnish work to my poor brother."
"And that's why I repeat, sergeant, that there is nothing so stupid as for people to shoot holes into one another, without, at least, knowing the why and the wherefore."
Saying this father Bribri drew out of his pocket his old snuff-box of white wood, and holding it out to his companion, added:
"Will you have some, sergeant?"
"Zounds! That's not to be refused, old man; it will help to clear up my head."
"Tell me, sergeant," remarked father Bribri laughing, "have you perhaps a cold in the head? Do you know the song:
"There were six soldiers, or five,
They had a cold in the head—"
"Ah, you gay old fraud!" exclaimed the Municipalist, giving his mattress-fellow a friendly tap on the shoulder and laughing heartily at the opportune refrain. He took a pinch of snuff, and after absorbing and relishing it like a connoisseur, he added:
"Zounds! This is good!"