"How?" said the traveller, "why! how is this?
You've sunk a precious depth, my friend, in mud;
How did you 'come to go' so much amiss,
As walk in muddy water—in cold blood?—
Ye gods! why, sir, you must have been like lead,
So deep into this puddle to have gone."
"If I'm so deep," the other gruffly said,
"Where, where, must be the horse that I am on?"
"Accidents of that sort will happen in the best regulated countries," remarked a modern Traveller, who had now, with an air of subdued jollity, taken his place amongst us, and who was distinguished among his familiars as Illustrious Tom, "though I can't say I ever witnessed such an adventure in Cheapside. But you call to mind a home-adventure, a scene at Bolton. Most towns, you must know, in almost every county, can boast of their little evening coterie, in which the affairs of the nation are more or less learnedly discussed, and where the wags of the place play off their jokes, practical, comical, or serious. It generally happens, too, that these congregated sons of smoke (for smokers they all are) take up some district name; as the 'Bolton Trotters,' the 'Wigan Badgers,' the 'Item Dolls,' the 'Corporation of the King's Arms Kitchen,' the 'Quarter of Hundred Bricks,' or a hundred other names that might be mentioned; and all these coteries are composed of about the same materials, the doctors, lawyers, retired tradesmen, country squires, and budding wags. It may be my province by and by to detail a few of the farcicalities which I have either taken part in, or heard related by some old Brick-Badger, Trotter, or Doll. For the present, here is a tale, related to me with many a deep sigh by an old one, whose trot is now reduced to a most miserable shamble.
"It had been a stormy November day, when a commercial traveller alighted at the door of the Swan Inn. It was almost dark. He was a gentleman from Leeds, in the cloth trade, and had ridden over the moors—not as the young ones do now who drive—but on a strong Cleveland bay cob, wrapped in a good Devon kersey coat, that would defy all weathers, much better than your nasty Mackintoshes. Well, sir, there was a good deal o' guessing, among us who were having a bit o' trot, at who he was. The waiter was called in, and 'thowt he was a new chap,'—he didn't know him. In about an hour he made his appearance, and begged to be allowed to join us. He was a strapping Leeds win'er, and no toy to play with, I assure you. The trotting was very slow for a time, when the bold wag, Jem Brown, went in to win, and filled his pipe. Mr. A., the lawyer, sat on one side the fire; the traveller, in what was called Travellers' Chair, on the other. Up got Jem to ring the bell, and then, as he passed by him—'You must have had a rough day,' says Jem; 'didn't I see you ride in about an hour ago?' 'Mebby ye did, I come in about that toime,' was the answer. 'On a bay cob?' says Jem. 'Eigh, a did.' 'A clever little hack, I be bound,' says Jem again. 'Eigh,' rejoins the traveller, 'the fastest in any town he goes inta.' 'Wew!' says Jem, 'I'll upo'd him a good 'un, but that's going ow'er far.' 'I'll bet a pound on't,' says the traveller. 'Nay, I never bet money—but I'll bet brandies round, I've a faster.' 'Dun,' says the traveller. 'Order in the brandy, and book it,' says Mr. A. Down went the bet, and down went the brandy, and the horses were ordered out. The traveller was soon mounted, and sure enough it was as nice a tit as onny man need wish throw a leg over. The traveller began to be impatient, when Jem at last made his appearance at the door, pipe in hand. What's that your fast hoss? let's see him walk.' On he went. 'Here, come back, and come in, for ye've lost.' 'Lost, how?' 'Why,' says Jem, 'mine's been stuck fast at Bolton-moor clay-pit this three days, and gone dead this afternoon.' 'A fair trot,' cried the whole party, amidst a roar o' laughter, as Jem retreated out o' the way of the strapping and irritated loser. (Now it was on the same evening, and at the expense of this same sturdy Yorkshireman, to provoke whom was no joke, that a joke was played off, which is commemorated in an oil painting that now hangs up in the commercial room of the Swan. Mr. A.'s leg was covered with a black silk stocking; the traveller's was cased in stout leather; when a bet was laid that the wearer of the silks would hold his leg longer in hot water than the wearer of the leathers. The experiment was tried in boiling water. In two minutes the Yorkshireman was in agony, while the lawyer looked on with astonishing composure-for his was a cork leg.")