"Clap an extinguisher on it, you young rogue, to be sure."
"Oh! but I mean, you cut off its supply of oxygen," said Master Harry.
"Cut off its ox's—eh? what? I shall cut off your nose, you young dog, one of these fine days."
"He means something he heard at the Royal Institution," observed Mrs. Wilkinson. "He reads a great deal about chemistry, and he attended Professor Faraday's lectures there on the chemical history of a candle, and has been full of it ever since."
"Now, you sir," said Uncle Bagges, "come you here to me, and tell me what you have to say about this chemical, eh?—or comical: which?—this comical chemical history of a candle."
"He'll bore you, Bagges," said Mr. Wilkinson. "Harry, don't be troublesome to your uncle."
"Troublesome! Oh, not at all. He amuses me. I like to hear him. So let him teach his old uncle the comicality and chemicality of a farthing rushlight."
"A wax candle will be nicer and cleaner, uncle, and answer the same purpose. There's one on the mantel-shelf. Let me light it.
"Take care you don't burn your fingers, Or set anything on fire," said Mrs. Wilkinson.
"Now, uncle," commenced Harry, having drawn his chair to the side of Mr. Bagges, "we have got our candle burning. What do you see?"