It will be observed the scenes and company I had been in of late years had tended to improve neither my temper nor my manners.
In this way we spent most of the day before the auction, and it was quite a relief early next morning to find ourselves being removed to the “Central Mart.”
It was impossible, however, to resist the temptation of another quarrel in our tray while we were waiting for the sale to begin. The culprit in this instance was a certain Queen Anne’s shilling attached to the chain of an insignificant-looking watch.
“What business has that ugly bit of tin here?” asked a burly hunter.
“Who calls me an ugly bit of tin?” squeaked out the coin.
“I do; there!” said the hunter; “now what have you got to say?”
“Only that you’re a falsehood. Why, you miserable, machine-made, wheezing, old make-believe of a turnip—”
“Draw it mild, young fellow,” said the hunter.
“Do you know that I was current coin of the realm before the tin mine that supplied your carcass was so much as discovered? I’m a Queen Anne’s shilling!”
“Are you, though? And what good are you now, my ancient Bob?”