ing in at last.

"Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it."

"Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord.

"Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and
water."

"Cold?" said the landlord.

"Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it."

"Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," {107} said I, and
struck the table with my fist.

"Take some?" said the landlord inquiringly.

"No," said I, "only something came into my head."

"He's mad," said the man in black.

"Not he," said the radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is
here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do.
Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders?
Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase
your business."

The landlord looked at the radical, and then at me. At last taking the
jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each
filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with the beer
before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man
in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out.

"Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat,
addressing himself to the man in black. "I honour you for what you said
about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of
England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it
be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his
Register."

The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in
the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am
not altogether of your opinion: they might be turned to better account
than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of
worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no
fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am
compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of
its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting
Church."

"Whom does it persecute?" said I. The man in black glanced at me
slightly, and then replied slowly, "The Catholics."

"And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I.

"Never," said the man in black.

"Did you ever read 'Fox's Book of Martyrs?'" said I.

"He! he!" tittered the man in bla