Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.--I take him out
with Mr. Anderson's 'ounds--I'm above it. I allis was too timid to ride
to 'ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs' groom as says he saw me, is a
liar," &c. &c.

Such is the tenor of Mr. Spavin's remarks to his master. Whereas all the
world in Our Street knows that Mr. Spavin spends at least a hundred a
year in beer; that he keeps a betting-book; that he has lent Mr. Green's
black brougham horse to the omnibus driver; and, at a time when Mr.
G. supposed him at the veterinary surgeon's, has lent him to a livery
stable, which has let him out to that gentleman himself, and actually
driven him to dinner behind his own horse.

This conduct I can understand, but I cannot excuse--Mr. Spavin may; and
I leave the matter to be settled betwixt himself and Mr. Green.

The second is Monsieur Sinbad, Mr. Clarence Bulbul's man, whom we all
hate Clarence for keeping.

Mr. Sinbad is a foreigner, speaking no known language, but a mixture
of every European dialect--so that he may be an Italian brigand, or a
Tyrolese minstrel, or a Spanish smuggler, for what we know. I have heard
say that he is neither of these, but an Irish Jew.

He wears studs, hair-oil, jewellery, and linen shirt-fronts, very finely
embroidered, but not particular for whiteness. He generally appears in
faded velvet waistcoats of a morning, and is always perfumed with stale
tobacco. He wears large rings on his hands, which look as if he kept
them up the chimney.