“I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?” “Why swallows, to be sure,”
IN the vicinity of our alley were numerous horse-rides, and my chief delight was being entrusted with a horse, and galloping up and down the straw-littered avenue.—I was about twelve years of age, and what was termed a sharp lad, and I soon became a great favourite with the ostlers, who admired the aptness with which I acquired the language of the stables.
There were many stock-brokers who put up at the ride; among others was Mr. Timmis—familiarly called long Jim Timmis. He was a bold, dashing, good-humoured, vulgar man, who was quite at home with the ostlers, generally conversing with them in their favourite lingo.
I had frequent opportunities of shewing him civilities, handing him his whip, and holding his stirrup, etc.
One day he came to the ride in a most amiable and condescending humour, and for the first time deigned to address me—“Whose kid are you?” demanded he.
“Father's, sir,” I replied.
“Do you know your father, then?”
“Yes, sir.”