The Amateur Gentleman

"Vell, sir, that's me?" says Mottle-face, condescending to become

aware of him at last.

"Give me a hand up with my valise--d'ye hear?"

"Walise, sir? No, sir, can't be done, sir. In the boot, sir; guard,

sir."

"Boot!" cries the fussy gentleman indignantly. "I'll never trust my

property in the boot!"

"Then v'y not leave it be'ind, sir, and stay vith it, or--"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the little man, growing angry. "I tell you

this is valuable property. D'ye know who I am?"

"Or ye might climb into the boot along vith it, sir--"

"Do you know who I am?"

"All aboard--all aboard for London!" roared the guard, coming up at

the instant.

"Valter!" cried Mottle-face.

"Ay, ay, Joe?"

"Gentleman's walise for the boot, Valter; and sharp's the vord!"

"Ay, ay, Joe!" and, as he spoke, the guard caught the valise from

the protesting small gentleman with one hand, and the hat-box with

the other, and, forthwith, vanished. Hereupon the fussy gentleman,

redder of face, and more angry than ever, clambered to the roof,

still loudly protesting; all of which seemed entirely lost upon

Mottle-face, who, taking up the reins and settling his feet against

the dash-board, winked a solemn, owl-like eye at Barnabas sitting

beside him, and carolled a song in a husky voice, frequently

interrupting himself to admonish the ostlers, in this wise:-"She vore no 'at upon 'er 'ead,

Nor a cap, nor a--"

"Bear the 'Markis' up werry short, Sam, vill 'ee?

"--dandy bonnet,

But 'er 'air it 'ung all down 'er back,

Like a--"

"Easy--easy now! Hold on to them leaders, Dick!

"--bunch of carrots upon it.

Ven she cried 'sprats' in Vestminister,

Oh! sich a sveet loud woice, sir,

You could 'ear 'er all up Parlyment Street,

And as far as Charing Cross, sir."

"All aboard, all aboard for London!" roars the guard, and roaring,

swings himself up into the boot.

"All right be'ind?" cries Mottle-face.

"All right, Joe!" sings the guard.

"Then--leggo, there!" cries Mottle-face.

Back spring the ostlers, forward leap the four quivering horses,

their straining hoofs beating out showers of sparks from the cobbles;

the coach lurches forward and is off, amid a waving of hats and

pocket-handkerchiefs, and Barnabas, casting a farewell glance around,

is immediately fixed by the gaze of the "White Lion," as inquiring

of eye and interrogatory of tail as ever.