"I don't think I've got any half-pence!" said Mr. S., fumbling in his pennyless pocket.
"Well, then, I must give you change."
"But I'm afraid I hav'nt got any silver," replied Mr. S., with a long face.—"I say, mister, cou'dn't you trust me?—I'd be wery sure to bring it to you."
But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.
"Vell, I'm blessed," exclaimed Mr. S.—and so he was—with a scolding wife and a squalling infant; "and they calls this here a trust, the fools! and there ain't no trust at all!"
And the poor animal got another vindictive cut. Oh! Mr. Martin!—thou friend of quadrupeds!—would that thou had'st been there. "It's all my eye and Betty Martin!" muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded beast he drove, and retraced the road.
A RIMAROLE—PART II.
"Acti labores sunt jucundi"
"Acti labores sunt jucundi"