sawyers. I never heard but one worse roarer in my life, and that was a roan: it belonged to Pegwell, the corn-factor; he used to drive him in his gig seven years ago, and he wanted me to take him, but I said, `Thank you, Peg, I don't deal in wind-instruments.' That was what I said. It went the round of the country, that joke did. But, what the hell! the horse was a penny trumpet to that roarer of yours."
"Why, you said just now his was worse than mine," said Fred, more irritable than usual.
"I said a lie, then," said Mr Bambridge, emphatically. "There wasn't a penny to choose between 'em."
Fred spurred his horse, and they trotted on a little way. When they slackened again, Mr Bambridge said—
"Not but what the roan was a better trotter than yours."
"I'm quite satisfied with his paces, I know," said Fred, who required all the consciousness of being in gay company to support him; "I say his trot is an uncommonly clean one, eh, Horrock?"
Mr Horrock looked before him with as complete a neutrality as if he had been a portrait by a great master.
Fred gave up the fallacious hope of getting a
