“May be the flies have eaten it,” said the postillion.
“I’ve seen two chaps the very moral of them two at the bar of the Old Bailey,” said Boots.
“It’s a swindle, it is,” said the landlady, “and Mr. Bush shan’t pay a farthing.”
“They deserve tossing in a blanket,” said the chambermaid.
“Duck ’em in the horsepond,” shouted John Ostler.
“I think,” whispered Thickset, “they are making themselves up for mischief!”
There was no time to be lost. Quickset again lugged Old Ball and Old Dumpling from the stable, while his companion tossed the brooms into the waggon. As soon as possible they drove out of the unlucky yard, and as they passed under the arch, I heard for the last time the voice of Thickset:
“You’ve been to London before, and to be sure know best; but somehow, to my mind, the telling the untruth don’t seem to answer.”
The only reply was a thwack, like the report of a pistol, on the crupper of each of the horses. The poor animals broke directly into something like a canter: and as the waggon turned a corner of the street, I shut down the sash, and resumed my “Illustrations of Lying.”