Smooth. I was thinking, when I saw those fine lads of yours, that another assistant to my under secretary's deputy—but (between you and me) Hume thinks that one is more than enough. We must wait a little.
Takes Tripes' arm.
Scene X.—Turnstile's parlour, 11½ a.m. Breakfast on the table; pamphlets and newspapers. In the corners of the room, books and philosophical instruments, dusty and thrown together; heaps of Parliamentary Reports lying above them. Turnstile alone, musing, and looking over some journals.
Turnstile. This headache! Impossible to sleep when one goes to bed by daylight. Experiments by Arago! Ah! a paper by Cauchy, on my own subject. But here is this cursed committee in Smithfield to be attended; and it is already past eleven. (Rising).
[Knock at the hall door.]
Enter Servant.
Servant. Mr. Tripes, sir.
Turnstile. Show him in. He comes, no doubt, to say that my election is arranged. A good, fat-headed, honest fellow.
Enter Tripes.
Well Mr. Tripes, I'm glad to see you. Pray take a chair.
Tripes. We hoped to have seen you at the meeting yesterday, sir. Capital speech from Mr. Smooth. You know, of course, that Mr. Highway is a candidate; and Mr. MacLeech is talked of;—very sorry, indeed, you weren't there.
Turnstile. A transit of Venus, Mr. Tripes, is a thing that does not happen every day. Besides, my friend, Stellini
