Phil. Looking for my diamond pin. But what’s the matter with you? You look as though, like me, you hadn’t had your bitters this morning.
Ned. No, I haven’t had my bitters; and that’s what’s the matter. This is an ungrateful country! Why don’t it take care of its “bone and sinew” better. There’s those chaps at the State House mighty civil to you just before election. Plenty of liquor then,—enough to float us all.
Phil. That’s why we are called the floating population,—hey, Ned?
Ned. But no sooner is election over than they shut themselves up, won’t treat themselves, and go to making laws against selling liquor, which prevents their constituents from obtaining the necessities of life. There’s gratitude for you.
Phil. Put not your trust in princes, Ned.
Ned. Trust! I wish I could find somebody to trust me. I wasted my valuable time last night in Steve Foster’s bar-room, laying round to get asked to drink; and I was asked. And Steve Foster made money by my being there; and now this morning, when I ask him for a drop of gin, he says, “Where’s your money?”—“Ain’t got any,” was my reply; and then, before I had time to explain things, he gives me a lift, and sends me into the gutter. I say this is an ungrateful country, where a hard-working man like me is used in this way.
Phil. Hard-working man you are! What do you work at?
Ned. Yes, hard-working indeed. Don’t I inspect liquors that go into Steve Foster’s cellar, to see that they are genuine?
Phil. How, pray?
Ned. By smelling round his cellar windows. Do you think I don’t nose good liquor?