“I should like Gladstone to see that, Jem; talk about
a collar! the Grand Old Man’s nowhere—he’d better take to turndowns after this.”
“Yes,” replied the gentleman addressed; “I think this would settle him—is he liberal or tory, I wonder?”
“Tory, you’re sure—wotes for the Squoire, I’ll warrant. A small loaf and a big jail.”
Mr. Bumpkin turned his eyes first towards one speaker and then towards another without moving his head, as he thought:
“Danged if I doan’t bleeve thee means I.” But he wisely said nothing.
“I say,” said another, “I wonder if pigeon’s milk is good for the complexion.”
“No,” said Jem, “it makes your nose red, and makes the hair sprout out of the top of it.”
Here was a laugh all round, which made the Usher call out silence; and the Judge said he would have the Court cleared if order was not preserved. Then there was a loud shouting all over the Court for “Thomas Bumpkin!”
“Here I be!” said Bumpkin, amid more laughter—and especially of the wits around him. Then a great bustling and hustling, and pushing and struggling took place.