his left hand, was discovered to be a grazier) observed, "That it
was a shame for so many pensioners to be allowed to take the bread
out of the mouth of the poor."

"Ay, and provisions," said his friend, "were never so dear in the
memory of man; I wish the king and his counsellors would look to
that."

"As for the matter of provisions, neighbour Wrightson," he replied,
"I am sure the prices of cattle--"

A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was prevented by the
spruce toastmaster, who gave a sentiment, and turning to the two
politicians, "Pray, gentlemen," said he, "let us have done with
these musty politics: I would always leave them to the beer-suckers
in Butcher Row. Come, let us have something of the fine arts. That
was a damn'd hard match between Joe the Nailor and Tim Bucket. The
knowing ones were cursedly taken in there! I lost a cool hundred
myself, faith."

At mention of the cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes aslant,
with a mingled look of doubt and surprise; while the man at his
elbow looked arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of cough.

Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this intelligence; and while
the remainder of the punch lasted the conversation was wholly
engrossed by the gentleman with the fine waistcoat, who told a great
many "immense comical stories" and "confounded smart things," as he
termed them, acted and spoken by lords, ladies, and young bucks of
quality, of his acquaintance. At last, the grazier, pulling out a