Can we fly, my friends?
We cannot.

Why can we not fly, my friends ?" Mr.Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings." But is immediately frowned down by Mrs.Snagsby.
"I say, my friends," pursues Mr.Chadband, utterly rejecting and obliterating Mr.Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly?
Is it because we are calculated to walk?
It is.

Could we walk, my friends, without strength?
We could not.

What should we do without strength, my friends?
Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.
Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs?
Is it," says Chadband, glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such like?
It is.

Then let us partake of the good things which are set before us!" The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after this fashion.