"EE cawnt gow back, 'cause they locks the gates," said a bumpkin on the road-side to a Cockney-party in a one-horse chaise.
"Well, can we go forward, then?" demanded the anxious and wearied traveller.
"Noa, ee cawnt, 'cause the roads are under water;" replied the joskin, with a grin.
This was certainly a situation more ridiculous than interesting; and I smiled when I heard the story told, little suspecting that Fortune would one day throw me into a similar dilemina—so blindly do we mortals hug ourselves in the supposed security of our tact and foresight.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Andrew," said Mr. Crobble, when he had seated himself, and sufficiently inflated his lungs, after the fatiguing operation of mounting the stairs.
"Where's Timmis?—tell him I want a word with him."
I quickly summoned my patron, and followed him into the office.
"Well, old puff and blow!" exclaimed Mr. Timmis, with his usual familiarity.
"What's in the wind? Want to sell out? The fives are fallen three per cent. since Friday. All the 'Change is as busy as the devil in a high wind."