"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?" "Why swallows, to be sure,"
"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?"