_Tuesday_.--Hear that the men want thirteen and sixpence a day and
a seven hours' turn. Directors offer five and sixpence, and make the
minimum seventeen hours. Go it, my hearties! Fight away! Who cares?
You must feed _me_, that's quite certain. Still I don't care about
being cooped up here all day. Nasty feeling of puffiness about the
knees. Hang the strike!

_Wednesday_.--Puffiness worse. Vet. looks in and says I want exercise.
Take a bolus and am walked for half an hour or so up and down some
back-streets. Bless them!--that ain't no good.

_Thursday_.--Puffiness worse, of course. Bother it all, being shut up
here! What wouldn't I give just for a sight of dear old Piccadilly!
The fact is, if they don't soon let me have my run from King's Cross
to Putney, I shall "bust up"--and that's a fact. I feel it.

_Friday_.--Ah, they may well come to terms! Another day of this, and I
believe I should have been off the hooks "for ever and for aye." It's
all very well for Capital and Labour to get at loggerheads, but, as
DUCROW said, they must cut all their disputes short if they wish to
save anything of their business, and look sharp, and "come to the
'osses."

_Saturday, 13th_.--Strike over! We shall have to be in harness again
on Monday, and not a day too soon, in the interests of the men, the
Directors, the Public; and, last, but by no means least, specially
that of "the 'osses."

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