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directions, I quickly made myself master of the details of the business. Alas! it was but the slender fragment of a once flourishing mercantile house, of which time had gradually lopped off the correspondents, whilst his own inertness had not supplied the deficiency by a new connexion; for his father had left him such an ample fortune, that he was almost careless of the pursuit, although he could not make up his mind, as he said, to abandon the “old shop,” where his present independence had been accumulated. I consequently found plenty of leisure, uninterrupted by the continual hurry and bustle of a broker’s office, to pursue my favourite studies, and went on, not only to the entire satisfaction of Mr. Crobble, but to my own, and really began to find myself a man of some importance.

In the course of business, I one day fell in with an old acquaintance.

“A parcel for Cornelius Crobble, Esq.,” said a little porter, of that peculiar stamp which is seen hanging about coach-offices–“Two and-sixpence.”

I looked at the direction, and drew out the “petty cash” to defray the demand; when, then, first looking at the man, I thought I recognised his features.

“What!” cried I, “Isn’t your name–“

“Matthew,” answered he quickly.

“Matthew!–why, don’t you know me?”

“No, sir,” replied he, staring vacantly at me.

“Indeed!–Have I so outgrown all knowledge? Don’t you recollect Andrew Mullins?”

“Good heavins!” exclaimed he, with his well-remembered nasal twang; “are you–“

“Yes.”

“Well, I declare now you’ve growed into a gentleman. I should’nt–I really should’nt–” He did not say what he really “should not”–but extended his hand.–“Hope you ain’t too proud to shake hands with an old friend?–“

I shook him heartily by the hand, and made some enquiries touching his history.

Poor Matthew seated himself with all the ease imaginable, and laid his knot beside him, and began, after the manner of his favourite heroes, to “unbosom himself.”

“You’ve a father,” said he; “but I’m a horphan, without father nor mother–a houtcast!”–and he sunk his head upon his bosom; and I observed that his scrubby crop was already becoming thin and bald.

“Since I left the place in the ‘lane,’ I’ve bin a-going–down–down”–and he nearly touched the floor with his hand. “That gal, Mary, was the ruin of me–I shall never forget her.–My hopes is sunk, like the sun in the ocean, never to rise agin!” I was rather amused by this romantic, though incorrect, figure; but I let him proceed: “I’ve got several places, but lost ’em all. I think there’s a spell upon me; and who can struggle against his fate?”

I tried to console him, and found, upon a further confession, that he had flown to spirits “now and then,” to blunt the sharp tooth of mental misery.

Here, then, was the chief cause of his want of success, which he blindly attributed to fate–the common failing of all weak minds. For my part, notwithstanding the imperial authority of the great Napoleon himself, I have no faith in Fate, believing that the effect, whether good or bad, may invariably be traced to some cause in the conduct of the individual, as certainly as the loss of a man, in a game of draughts, is the consequence of a “wrong move” by the player!–And poor Matthew’s accusation of Fate put me in mind of the school-boy, who, during a wet vacation, rushed vindictively at the barometer, and struck it in the face, exclaiming–“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says ‘very wet;’–I can’t bear it–I can’t–and I won’t.”

I did all in my power to comfort the little porter, exhorting him to diligence and sobriety.

“You were always a kind friend,” said he, pathetically; “and perhaps–perhaps you will give me something to drink your health, for old-acquaintance sake.” This unexpected turn compelled me to laughter. I gave him sixpence.

Alas! Matthew, I found, was but a piece of coarse gingerbread, tricked out with the Dutch metal of false sentiment.

CHAPTER XVI.–The Loss of a Friend.

“I say, ma’am, do you happen to have the hair of ‘All round my hat I vears a green villow?'”

I was startled by the batho-romantic sentiment of Matthew, somewhat in the same manner as the young lady at the bookseller’s, when she was accosted by a musical dustman, with–“I say, ma’am, do you happen to have the hair of ‘All round my hat I vears a green villow?'”

But, however ridiculous they may appear, such incongruous characters are by no means caricatures–nay, are “as plentiful as blackberries,” especially in the lower grades of society.

I was indulging in a reverie of this sort, when Monsieur Dubois, my kind and gentlemanly tutor, abruptly entered the office. I felt proud in having obtained his friendship–for he was to me a mine of wealth, and appeared master of every subject upon which my curiosity prompted me to inquire, whilst the worthy Frenchman was so flattered by my sincere respect, that he took a delight in imparting his knowledge to so willing and diligent a scholar.

Mr. Crobble had promised that I should continue my studies, being much pleased with the proof I had been fortunate enough to give him of my progress, generously offering to defray the charges of tuition; and I found in my new place, even more time than when in the employ of Mr. Timmis: for, indeed, half-a-clerk would have been sufficient to have conducted the whole business.

I was no less surprised at the unusual abruptness of approach, than at the extraordinary excitement apparent in the manner of Monsieur Dubois; for he always boasted of his coolness and philosophy under all circumstances.

“Peace, peace!–‘mon cher ami’–peace is proclaim”–cried he, raising his hat and his eyes to the dingy ceiling of our office–“Grace a Dieu!–le tyran Napoleon–le charlatan est renverse de son piedestal–oui, mon eleve–I vill see, again once more my dear France!”

He grasped my hand in his ecstasy, and tears filled his eyes to overflowing. I had heard rumours of the restoration of the Bourbons, but I had not anticipated the loss of my inestimable tutor.

I was almost ashamed of my selfishness; but vanquished my feelings so far as to congratulate him on his prospects, with as much cordiality and appearance of truth as I could assume.

“I trust, however,” said I, “that restored to your country, and your friends, you will find that happiness you so much deserve. Go where you will, you will be followed by the regrets of your English friends.”

“Ah! les Anglais!–‘combien’–how motch ‘reconnaissance?'” said he, “I vill have for them! I sall them forget nevare!”

Mr. Crobble interrupted our colloquy. “All right t’other side the channel, Mounseer,” cried be, elated; “we’ve licked Boney: he’s done up; stocks are up; and Timmis, (your old master, Andrew) is as busy as a bee –only he’s making money instead of honey!”

He shook hands with Monsieur Dubois; and congratulated him upon the restoration of Louis the Eighteenth.

I mentioned to him Monsieur Dubois’ intention of proceeding immediately to France. “He’s right,” cried he; “let every man stick to his King and his country; and I say”–he suddenly checked himself, and beckoning me aside, continued in an under tone–“Andrew, you understand this Mounseer better than I do; he appears a good fellow in the main: if he should want a lift, to fit him out for the voyage, or any thing of that sort, tell him Corny Crobble will lend him a hand, for old acquaintance sake; I shan’t stick at a matter of forty or fifty pound–you understand–put it to him, as a matter of business; for that’ll suit his proud stomach best, perhaps”–then, turning to Monsieur, he said, “Excuse whispering before company, Mounseer Dubois. Good morning.”

“Bon jour, Monsieur,” replied Dubois, making my obese governor one of his most graceful bows.

I was highly gratified at being selected as the medium of this generous offer; which Monsieur Dubois received without hesitation, as one who intended to repay it; but, at the same time, with the most grateful acknowledgments of Mr. Crobble’s considerate kindness.

CHAPTER XVII.–Promotion.

“I, think there must be something wrong about your rowing,”

“My rowing!” cried I; “nonsense!–it’s because you don’t steer right.”

“I remember, when I was a young man, I once took a fancy to rowing,” said Mr. Crobble one day to me. “I wasn’t then quite so round as I am at present. Cousin Tom and I hired a wherry, but somehow we found we didn’t make much way. Tom was steering, and I took the sculls, sitting my back to him like a gaby!”

“I, think there must be something wrong about your rowing,” said Tom.

“My rowing!” cried I; “nonsense!–it’s because you don’t steer right. Well, at last a waterman came alongside, and grinning (the fellow couldn’t help it) good-naturedly, pointed out the cause of our dilemma; at which we both laughed heartily. Ever since that time I’ve been of opinion, that unless people, ‘who row in the same boat,’ understand each other, they’ll never get along–“

I smiled at this lengthy prologue, not conceiving to what it could possibly lead.

“Now, Mr. Andrew,” resumed he, “I mean to be very industrious, and devote a whole day to giving you an insight into the business; after which I expect you’ll pull away, while I only steer, which will suit me to a T–, you understand.”

“Exactly, sir,” I replied; and, in consequence, he really set about the task; and I soon acquired sufficient knowledge in the business, as not only to row in the same boat with him, but, what was still more agreeable to my patron’s indolence, to manage the “craft” without his assistance.

Six months after the departure of Monsieur Dubois, he sent a remittance, with interest on the amount, advanced by Mr. Crobble, with a long epistle to me, stating, that he had entered into partnership with his elder brother, and commenced the business of a banker, under the firm of “Dubois Freres,” at the same time informing me that they were already doing a large stroke of business, and wanted an agent in London, requesting me to inform him if it would be agreeable to Mr. Crobble for them to draw upon his respectable house.

I saw at once the advantages of this correspondence, and so warmly solicited Mr. Crobble to accede, that he at last consented, provided I undertook the whole management of the affair.

The English were now daily flocking to Paris, and the money required for their lavish expenditure in the gay capital of France compelled their application to the bankers.

Messrs. Dubois Freres had their share of this lucrative business, and, as their agents in London, we necessarily became participators in their large transactions.

In three months these operations had increased so enormously, and the profits were so considerable, that Mr. Crobble not only advanced my salary, but consented to engage the assistance of two junior clerks. I was now a man of some consideration. I was the senior clerk of the establishment, although the youngest of the three.

In two years I found myself at the head of six clerks, and had as much business as I could possibly manage.

My star was in the ascendant. I had not only more money than I required for my expenses, but was enabled to maintain my poor old father, who daily became more and more infirm.

I rented a small cottage at the rural village of Hackney, but my labour occupied me early and late, and it was only on a Sunday I could really enjoy my home.

Three years after quitting the office of Mr. Timmis, I had the inexpressible pleasure of employing him to purchase stock for his errand boy! I was proud as a king.

“I said that boy would turn out well,” said the good-natured Mr. Wallis; “he always had a good principle.”

“And now bids fair,” said Mr. Timmis, “to have both principal and interest.”

Mr. Crobble having lately had a large property left him in Hertfordshire, rarely came to the office above once a-quarter, to settle accounts.

“A good dividend–a very good dividend!” said he, upon receipt of the last quarter’s profits. “But, Mr. Mullins, I cannot forget that this business is your child.”

“And I’m happy to say a thriving one,” I replied.

“Are you satisfied–perfectly satisfied?” demanded he.

“Beyond my wishes, sir.”

“I am not,” said he shortly.

“No, sir?” exclaimed I, with surprise.

“No, Sir!” repeated he. “Those who sow should reap. I’ve no children–I’m an idle fellow-a drone, sir–and won’t consent to consume all the honey. Don’t speak, sir–read that!” and he pulled a parchment from his pocket.

It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge, Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler’s son,

ANDREW MULLINS.

A RIGMAROLE.–PART I.

“De omnibus rebus.”

The evening is calm–the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house, which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public–all nature, etc.–the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree–the sweet-voiced pot-boy has commenced his rounds with “early beer,” and with leathern lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act –greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood–“Baked sheeps’ heads, hot!”–O! savoury morsel!–May no legislative measure ever silence this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling–may the tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep’s head!

“I never sees a sheep’s head, but I thinks on you,” said Mrs. Spriggins, whose physiognomy was as yellow and as wrinkled as a duck’s foot. Spriggins whipped his horse, for they were driving in a one-horse chaise, with two boys, and an infant in arms–Spriggins whipped his horse spitefully, for Mrs. S.’s sarcasm inspired him with a splenetic feeling; and as he durst not chastise her, the animal received the benefit of her impetus. Spriggins was a fool by nature, and selfish by disposition. Mrs. S. was a shrivelled shrew, with a “bit o’ money;”–that was the bait at which he, like a hungry gudgeon, had seized, and he was hooked! The “spousals” had astonished the vulgar–the little nightingale of Twickenham would have only smiled; for has he not sweetly sung–

“There swims no goose so grey, but soon or late She finds some honest gander for her mate;”

and her union was a verification of this flowing couplet.

At different times, what different meanings the self-same words obtain. According to the reading of the new poor-law guardians, “Union,” as far as regards man and wife, is explained “Separation;” or, like a ship when in distress, the “Union” is reversed! In respect of his union, Spriggins would have most relished the reading of the former! But there are paradoxes–a species of verbal puzzle–which, in the course of this ride, our amiable family of the Spriggins’s experienced to their great discomfort.

Drawing up a turnpike-gate, Mrs. S. handed a ticket to the white-aproned official of the trust.

“You should have gone home the way you came out–that ticket won’t do here,” said the man; “so out with your coppers–three-pence.”

“I don’t think I’ve got any half-pence!” said Mr. S., fumbling in his pennyless pocket.

“Well, then, I must give you change.”

“But I’m afraid I hav’nt got any silver,” replied Mr. S., with a long face.–“I say, mister, cou’dn’t you trust me?–I’d be wery sure to bring it to you.”

But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.

“Vell, I’m blessed,” exclaimed Mr. S.–and so he was–with a scolding wife and a squalling infant; “and they calls this here a trust, the fools! and there ain’t no trust at all!”

And the poor animal got another vindictive cut. Oh! Mr. Martin!–thou friend of quadrupeds!–would that thou had’st been there. “It’s all my eye and Betty Martin!” muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded beast he drove, and retraced the road.

A RIMAROLE–PART II.

“Acti labores sunt jucundi”

The horse is really a noble animal–I hate all rail-roads, for putting his nose out of joint–puffing, blowing, smoking, jotting–always going in a straight line: if this mania should continue, we shall soon have the whole island ruled over like a copy-book–nothing but straight lines–and sloping lines through every county in the kingdom!

Give me the green lanes and hills, when I’m inclined to diverge; and the smooth turnpike roads, when disposed to “go a-head.”–“I can’t bear a horse,” cries Numps: now this feeling is not at all reciprocal, for every horse can bear a man. “I’m off to the Isle of Wight,” says Numps: “Then you’re going to Ryde at last,” quoth I, “notwithstanding your hostility to horse-flesh.” “Wrong!” replies he, “I’m going to Cowes.” “Then you’re merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!” The ninny! he does not know the delight of a canter in the green fields–except, indeed, the said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher!

My friend Rory’s the boy for a horse; he and his bit o’ blood are notorious at all the meetings. In fact I never saw him out of the saddle: he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur–full of anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly. I last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster –his “bit o’ blood” had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making his way to the appointed spot.

“I was in Buckinghamshire last week,” said he; “a fine turn out–such a field! I got an infernal topper tho’–smashed my best tile; tell you how it was. There was a high paling–put Spitfire to it, and she took it in fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely! Thought I was brained–but we did it cleverly however–although, if ever I made a leap in the dark, that was one. I was at fault for a minute–but Spitfire was all alive, and had it all her own way: with some difficulty I got my nob out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!”

I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of sport, we parted.

Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime–so true is it–that

“The pleasure we delight in physic’s pain;”

his days pass lightly, and all his years are leap years!

He has lately inherited a considerable property, accumulated by a miserly uncle, and has most appropriately purchased an estate in one of the Ridings of Yorkshire!

With all his love for field-sports, however, he is no better “the better,” says he, “is often the worse; and I’ve no notion of losing my acres in gambling; besides, my chief aim being to be considered a good horseman, I should be a consummate fool, if, by my own folly, I lost my seat!”

A RIGMAROLE–PART III.

“Oderunt hilarem tristes.”

The sad only hate a joke. Now, my friend Rory is in no sense a sad fellow, and he loves a joke exceedingly. His anecdotes of the turf are all racy; nor do those of the field less deserve the meed of praise! Lord F____ was a dandy sportsman, and the butt of the regulars. He was described by Rory as a “walkingstick”–slender, but very “knobby”–with a pair of mustaches and an eye-glass. Having lost the scent, he rode one day slick into a gardener’s ground, when his prad rammed his hind-legs into a brace of hand-glasses, and his fore-legs into a tulip-bed. The horticulturist and the haughty aristocrat–how different were their feelings–the cucumber coolness of the ‘nil admirari’ of the one was ludicrously contrasted with the indignation of the astonished cultivator of the soil. “Have you seen the hounds this way?” demanded Lord F____, deliberately viewing him through his glass.

“Hounds!” bitterly repeated the gardener, clenching his fist. “Dogs, I mean,” continued Lord F____; “you know what a pack of hounds are–don’t you?”

“I know what a puppy is,” retorted the man; “and if so be you don’t budge, I’ll spile your sport. But, first and foremost, you must lug out for the damage you have done–you’re a trespasser.”

“I’m a sportsman, fellow–what d’ye mean?”

“Then sport the blunt,” replied the gardener; and, closing his gates, took Lord F____ prisoner: nor did he set him free till he had reimbursed him for the mischief he had done.

This was just; and however illegal were the means, I applauded them for the end.

Our friend B___d, that incorrigible punster, said, “that his horse had put his foot in–and he had paid his footing,”

B___d, by the bye, is a nonpareil; whether horses, guns, or dogs, he is always “at home:” and even in yachting, (as he truly boasts) he is never “at sea.” Riding with him one day in an omnibus, I praised the convenience of the vehicle; “An excellent vehicle,” said he, “for punning;”–which he presently proved, for a dowager having flopped into one of the seats, declared that she “never rid vithout fear in any of them omnibus things.”

“What is she talking about?” said I.

“De omnibus rebus,” replied he,–“truly she talks like the first lady of the land; but, as far as I can see, she possesses neither the carriage nor the manners!”

“Can you read the motto on the Conductor’s button?” I demanded. “No;” he replied, “but I think nothing would be more appropriate to his calling than the monkish phrase–‘pro omnibus curo!'”

At this juncture a jolt, followed by a crash, announced that we had lost a wheel. The Dowager shrieked. “We shall all be killed,” cried she; “On’y to think of meeting vun’s death in a common omnibus!”

“Mors communis omnibus!” whispered B___d, and—-

I had written thus far, when spit–spit–splutter–plop!–my end of candle slipped into the blacking bottle in which it was “sustained,” and I was left to admire–the stars of night, and to observe that “Charles’s wain was over the chimney;” so I threw down my pen–and, as the house was a-bed–and I am naturally of a “retiring” disposition, I sought my pallet–dreaming of literary fame!–although, in the matter of what might be in store for me, I was completely in the dark!

AN INTERCEPTED LETTER FROM DICK SLAMMER TO HIS FRIEND SAM FLYKE.

eppin-toosday

my dear sam

i’ve rote this ere for to let you no i’m in jolly good health and harty as a brick–and hope my tulip as your as vell—-read this to sal who can’t do the same herself seeing as her edication aintt bin in that line —-give her my love and tell her to take care o’ the kids.—-i’ve got a silk vipe for sal, tell her; and suffing for ’em all, for i’ve made a xlent spec o’ the woy’ge and bagg’d some tin too i can tell you; and vont ve have a blow out ven i cums amung you—-napps—-that’s the ass—-is particklar vell and as dun his dooty like a riq’lar flint—-

i rode too races ar’ needn’t say as i vun em for napps is a houtanhouter an no mistake!

lork! didn’t i make the natifs stare! and a gintlum as vos by, vanted to oan ‘im an oferd any blunt for im but walker! says i there aint sick a ass as this ‘ere hanimal in the hole country—-besides he’s like as vun o’ me oan famly, for i’ve brot im up in a manner from the time he vos a babby!—-he’s up to a move or too and knows my voice jist for all the world like a Chrissen.

Red-nose Bill vot had a nook ’em down here brings this and he’ll tell you all about the noose—-i shall foller in about, a veek or so—-tell sal to keep up her sperrits and not to lush vith Bet—-i dont like that ere ooman at all—-a idle wagabone as is going to the Union like vinkin—-i’m no temperens cove meself as you nose, sam, but enufs enuf and as good as a feast.

The gintry as taken hervite a likin to Napps and me—-they looks upon im as hervite a projidy—-for he’s licked all the donkies as run agin im—-the vimmen too—-(you no my insinnivating vay, sam,) and nobody nose better than me how to git the right sow by the ear—-no sooner do i see ’em a comin vith their kids, than i slips of and doffs my tile, an i says, says i—-do let the yung jentlum have a cast—-and then the little in coorse begins a plegyin the old ‘uns, and—-so the jobs done!

—-vot’s to pay, my good man? says she

—-oh—-nothink, marm, says i, as modest as a turnip new-peeld—-napps is a rig’lar racer—-i dont let im hout but i’m so fond o’ children!

—-this here Yummeree doos the bisnis prime, for the vimmen comes over the jentlum and a pus is made up for anuther race—-and in coorse i pockits the Bibs—-cos vy?—-napps is nothink but a good ‘un.

‘tother day hearin as there vos an hunt in the naborwood:—-napps, says i-a—-speakin to my ass—-napps ve’ll jist go and look at ’em—-

—-vell ve hadnt got no more nor a mile wen i comes slap alongside of a starch-up chap upatop of raythur a good lookin’ oss.—-but my i! vornt there bellows to mend; and he made no more vay nor a duck in a gutter.—-i says, sir, says i, dye think ve shall be in time for the hunt? but he never turns is hed but sets bolt uprite as stiff as pitch—-jist for all the world as if his mother had vashed im in starch.

—-i twigs his lean in a jiffy—-so i says says i “oh-you needn’t be so shy i rides my own hannimal,”—-

—-vich i takes it vos more nor he co’d say, for his vas nothin more nor a borrod’un and if i dont mistake he vos a vitechapler—-i think ive seed im a sarvin out svipes and blue ruin at the gin-spinners corner o’ summerset street or petticut lane—-dunno witch.

—-sam, i hates pride so i cuts his cumpny—-i says says i—-napps it dont fit you aint a nunter you’re o’ny a racer and that chaps afeard his prad vill be spiled a keeping conapny with a ass—-leastways i’m o’ the same opinyon in that respec consarning meself and—-so i shall mizzle.

—-a true gintlum as is a gintlum, sam is as difrent to these here stuck-up fellers az a sovrin is to a coronashun copper vot’s on’y gilt.

vell lie turns hof over the left and vips up his animal tryin to get up a trot—-bobbin up and down in his sturrups and bumpin hisself to make a show—-all flummery!—-he takes the middel o’ the field to hisself, and i cox my i for a houtlet and spi’s a gait—-that’s the ticket! says i; so liting the ‘bacca and blowin a cloud I trots along, and had jist cum to the gait ven turnin’ round to look for the gin-spinner, blow me! sam, if i didn’t see the cove again heels over head over an edge—-like a tumler at bartlmy fare;—-vile his preshus hannimal vas a takin it cooly in the meddo!

“vat a rum chap”–says i, a larfin reddy to bust—-“vat a rum chap to go over the ‘edge that vay! ven here’s a riglar gait to ride through!”

—-and so, i druv on, but somehow, sam, i coudn’t help a thinkin’ as praps the waggerbun lead broke his nek—-stif as it vas! and so i said to napps—-“napps,”—-says i—-“lets go and look arter the warmint for charity’s-sake”

—-napps vots as good-natur’d a ass as his master, didn’t make no obstacle and so ve vent—

—-my i!—-sam, i’d a stood a Kervorten and three outs ad you a bin there!—-there vas my jentlum up to his nek in a duckpond—-lookin’ as miserribble as a stray o’ mutton in a batter puddin’

“halp! halp!” says he, a spittin’ the green veeds out of his mouth—-“halp me, faller, and i’ll stand a bob” or summat to that efeck.

—-but i couldn’t hold out my fin to him for larfin—-and napps begun a brayin at sich a rate—-vich struck me as if he vas a larfin too, and made me larf wusser than ever—-

—-vell, at last, i contrivis to lug him out, and a preshus figger he cut to be sure—-he had kervite a new sute o’ black mud, vich didn’t smell particlar sveet i can tell you.

—-“ain’t hurt yoursef?” says i, “have you?”

—-“no”—-says he—-“but i’m dem wet and utterably spiled”—-or vords like that for he chewd’em so fine i couldn’t rightly hit ’em.

—-ater i’d scraped him a little desent, and he’d tip’d a hog—-vich vas rayther hansum—-i ax’d him vere he’d left his tile?

“tile?”—-says he—-a yogglin his i’s and openin’ his jaws like a dyin’ oyster “yes your castor”—-says i, “your beaver your hat.”

“Oh!”—-says he, p’inting dismal to the pond—-“gone to the devil d___ me!”—-so vith that he takes out a red and yuller vipe, and ties it about his hed, lookin’ for all the vorld like a apple-ooman.

—-as he had come down hansum i in coorse ofer’d to ketch his prad vich va’n’t much difficulty—-and up he jumps and lepped with a squosh into the saddle—-and rid of vithout as much as sayin’ by your leave good luck to you or anythink else—-

—vell, this here vos the end and upshot o’ that day’s fun for I vos too late for the start by ten minnits—-i saw ’em goin’ it at a distance so i takes a sight!—-but i had too much valley for napes to put im to it so as to get up vith ’em—-or he might a done it praps!—

—-i’ve lived like a fightin cock and am as fatt as butter—-but the race is goin’ to begin in a hour and i must go and ketch napps who’s a grazin on the commun and looks oncommun vell—-so no more at present from,

Yours, my prime ‘un,

dick stammer.