wit upon; however
the _Examiner_ was at its last gasp.

It was not though. It lived and flourished; at least it paid its way, as
one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was chief compositor, or
whatever title may be given to the head-man of the mechanical part of a
newspaper. He hardly confined himself to that department. Once or twice,
unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen short, he had
filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own; announcements of
a forthcoming crop of green peas in December; a grey thrush having been
seen, or a white hare, or such interesting phenomena; invented for the
occasion, I must confess; but what of that? His wife always knew when to
expect a little specimen of her husband's literary talent by a peculiar
cough, which served as prelude; and, judging from this encouraging sign,
and the high-pitched and emphatic voice in which he read them, she was
inclined to think, that an "Ode to an early Rose-bud," in the corner
devoted to original poetry, and a letter in the correspondence department,
signed "Pro Bono Publico," were her husband's writing, and to hold up
her head accordingly.

I never could find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgsons to lodge
in the same house as the Jenkinses. Jenkins held the same office in
the Tory paper as Hodgson did in the _Examiner_, and, as I said before,
I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper sense of his
position, and a proper reverence for all in authority, from the king
down to the editor and sub-editor. He would as soon have thought of
borrowing the king's crown for a nightcap, or the king's sceptre for a
walking-stick, as he would have thought of filling up any spare corner
with any production of his own; and I think it would have even added
to his contempt of Hodgson (if that were possible), had he known of
the "productions of his brain," as the latter fondly alluded to the
paragraphs he inserted, when speaking to his wife.

Jenkins had his wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness
of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen
years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with
wives, it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel. To make the
opposing parties still more equal, still more well-matched, if the
Hodgsons had a baby ("such a baby!--a poor, puny little thing"), Mrs.
Jenkins had a cat ("such a cat! a great, nasty, miowling tom-cat, that
was