ed,
helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead
made, under Ned's weight in his new suit! It didn't break down though;
and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till
next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he
groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the
consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the
town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had
suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr.
Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of
which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the
secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of
the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas
Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall
any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such
dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long
speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same
things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the
corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was
thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What
would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call
the Lord Mayor of London 'Nick!' He should like to know what the
sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or
any other of the great officers of the city. They'd nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble's doings. If they had
been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he
lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got
philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him
into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the
river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed,
bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a
large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men
have congregated time out of mind on a winter's night, refreshed by
draughts of good strong beer, and chee