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Rh. But what attracts the attention of Dicæopolis most is some splendid Copaic eels. He has not seen their sweet faces, he vows, for six years or more—never since this cursed war began. He selects the finest, and calls at once for brazier and bellows to cook it. The Bœotian naturally asks to be paid for this pick of his basket; but Dicæopolis explains to him that he takes it by the landlord's right, as "market-toll." For the rest of the lot, however, he shall have payment in Athenian wares. "What will he take?—sprats? crockery?" Nay, they have plenty of these things at home, says the Theban; he would prefer some sort of article that is plentiful in Attica and scarce at Thebes. A bright idea strikes Dicæopolis at once:—

Apropos to the notion, an informer makes his appearance, and Dicæopolis stealthily points him out to the Bœotian. "He's small," remarks the latter, in depreciation. "Yes," replies the Athenian; "but every inch of him is thoroughly bad." As the man, intent on his