Beef. [With a dignified severity.] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man.
Pudd. [After a pause, with suppressed emotion.] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?
Beef. Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield—the Barons are victorious—King John has been defeated—Magna Charta, that venerable immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July, Old Style.
Pudd. I can scarce believe my ears—but let me satisfy my eyes—show me the paragraph.
Beef. Here it is, just above the advertisements.
Pudd. [Reads.] “The great demand for Packwood’s Razor Straps”—
Beef. Pshaw!—what, ever blundering!—you drive me from my patience. See here, at the head of the column.
Pudd. [Reads.]
“A hireling print, devoted to the court,
Has dared to question our veracity