“I say, Judge” (Pigworth, being a justice of the peace, was universally styled thus), cried a voice from the group, “do you, or do you not, indorse my sentiments?”

Pigworth turned majestically, and spoke like an oracle: 

“I do not indorse your sentiments.  I wish it distinctly understood, that I do not indorse them.  I indorse nothing but the Cons’tution.  That instrument I indorse to any extent.  Are you satisfied now?”

This speech was hailed by cries of “Good! good!” “That’s so!” “Sound doctrine, that!” “The Judge knows what’s what!” Only one person, the questioner, a young man with a preternatural head, was unappeased.

“A single word more,” said this young man.  “Do you, or do you not, subscribe to my views on the Homestead Law?”

Pigworth looked at the three comers as if to say, “Mark how I crush him now.”  Then, pointing his long right arm at the rash youth, he replied, slowly, but with fearful distinctness:  “I do not subscribe to your views.  Sooner would I lose this right arm than subscribe to them.  There is only one view that I subscribe to.  That view to which I subscribe (the Judge spoke with increased dignity here, and rose on his toes)—­that view is found in the Cons’tution.  You would do well to study the Cons’tution, my young friend.”

This withering rebuke was greeted with shouts and clapping of hands from all but the young man, who muttered something about humbug, and looked glum.

The landlord had another excoriating remark, which he might have flung at the young man and finished him up, but he magnanimously forbore.

“Now, my friends,” said the landlord, patronizingly.  He ushered them into a dirty entry, and piloted the way up stairs.

“From New York, I suppose?” said the landlord.  “Any political news?”

“Really, sir, we don’t meddle with politics,” replied Tiffles, sharply.

The landlord looked at him with an expression of pity “Oh! to be sure not.  You belong to the pannyrama.  I recolleck that the last circus folks that come here never talked about politics.  Are you Professor Wesley?”

“I am,” said Tiffles.

“I merely wanted to say,” continued the landlord, “that six of my lodgers are goin’ to the pannyrama on my recommendation.  I have a wife, sister-in-law and five children.”

Tiffles took the hint.  “I will hand you a complimentary ticket for yourself and family,” said he.

“Oh, no! by no means!” replied the landlord.  “I wouldn’t think of taking it.”

Mr. Pigworth then ushered his guests into the large, uncomfortable apartment known as the “best room” in all country hotels.  The ceiling was low; there were three windows with small panes, the sashes of which rattled in the wind; a rag carpet covered the floor; an old bureau, topped off with a dirty white cloth, a rickety table similarly draped, four cane-bottomed chairs, and a huge wooden spitbox filled with sawdust, stood at intervals around.  Two single beds occupied opposite corners.