As coachee wound up the tale of his by-gone victory, it brought on a fit of laughter, which I began to think would never end; when, on a sudden it ceased, and with horror and consternation painted in his face, he exclaimed, "Well, bless my heart alive, that ever I should live to see such a thing!" "Where! what!" said I looking right and left, and almost expecting to see some wonderful beast pop over the hedge. "Well, now, it hasn't got no outside, and"—after a pause—"no, nor I'm blest if it has any inside!"
I guessed his meaning by this time; but affecting ignorance, I asked, "What is that wonderful animal without any inside?" "Animal!" he exclaimed, "why, don't you see the poor old Exquisite a coming by itself?"
"There is a coachman," said I, as gravely as I could. "Poor Banks!" said coachee, quite touched with compassion, and heedless of my remark. He pulled up, so did the Exquisite.
"Well, now, I'm blest, if this isn't worse than solitary confinement, it makes my stomach ache, Mr. Banks!"
(A poet would have said, "my heart," but depend upon it, coachee meant the same thing.)
"A bad day's work, Mr. Bond, but we can't expect no otherwise now," said he of the once "palmy" Exquisite, yet looking more cheerful than might have been expected.
"A sad change, Mr. Banks. Why, that 'ere near leader looks as if it hadn't strength to draw your hat off."
"You're about right there, Mr. Bond, but,"—and here the flash of humour of brighter days lit up the features of Mr. Banks,—"but do you know what the Tories are going to do with us old coachmen?"