“I wouldn’t be outside,” said Mr. Jones, another stockbroker, “for a trifle.”
“Nor I, as a speculation in options,” said Mr. Parsons, another frequenter of the Alley.
“I wonder what Mat is waiting for,” said Mr. Tidwell, “for we are full inside and out.”
Mr. Tidwell’s doubt was soon solved,—the coach-door opened and Mat somewhat ostentatiously enquired, what indeed he very well knew—“I believe every place is took up inside?”
“We’re all here,” answered Mr. Jones, on behalf of the usual complement of old stagers.
“I told you so, Ma’am,” said Mat, to a female who stood beside him, but still leaving the door open to an invitation from within. However, nobody spoke—on the contrary, I felt Mr. Hindmarsh, my next neighbour, dilating himself like the frog in the fable.
“I don’t know what I shall do,” exclaimed the woman; “I’ve nowhere to go to, and it’s raining cats and dogs!”
“You’d better not hang about, anyhow,” said Mat, “for you may ketch your death,—and I’m the last coach,—aint I, Mr. Jones?”
“To be sure you are,” said Mr. Jones, rather impatiently; “shut the door.”
“I told the lady the gentlemen couldn’t make room for her,” answered Mat, in a tone of apology,—“I’m very sorry, my dear” (turning towards the female), “you should have my seat, if you could hold the ribbons—but such a pretty one as you ought to have a coach of her own.”