He not only employed my father to make his boots, but recommended him to all his friends as a "good-fit," and procured the old man some excellent customers. Among his acquaintance, for he had few friends, was Tom Wallis, a fat, facetious man, about forty, with whom he was always lunching and cracking his jokes. One day, when the stocks were "shut" and business was slack, they started together on a sporting excursion towards the romantic region of Hornsey-wood, on which occasion I had the honour of carrying a well-filled basket of provisions, and the inward satisfaction of making a good dinner from the remnants.
They killed nothing but time, yet they were exceedingly merry, especially during the discussion of the provisions. Their laughter, indeed, was enough to scare all the birds in the neighbourhood.
"Jim, if you wanted to correct those sheep yonder," said Tom, "what sort of tool would you use?"
"An ewe-twig, of course," replied my master.
"No; that's devilish good," said Wallis; "but you ain't hit it yet."
"For a crown you don't do a better?"
"Done!"
"Well, what is it?"
"Why, a Ram-rod to be sure—as we're sportsmen."
My master agreed that it was more appropriate, and the good-natured Tom Wallis flung the crown he had won to me.