"I wou'dn't like to shoot her exactly; but I've a blessed mind to turn
her out!"




CHAPTER IV.--A Situation.

"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?" "Why swallows, to be
sure,"


In the vicinity of our alley were numerous horse-rides, and my chief
delight was being entrusted with a horse, and galloping up and down the
straw-littered avenue.--I was about twelve years of age, and what was
termed a sharp lad, and I soon became a great favourite with the ostlers,
who admired the aptness with which I acquired the language of the
stables.

There were many stock-brokers who put up at the ride; among others was
Mr. Timmis--familiarly called long Jim Timmis. He was a bold, dashing,
good-humoured, vulgar man, who was quite at home with the ostlers,
generally conversing with them in their favourite lingo.

I had frequent opportunities of shewing him civilities, handing him his
whip, and holding his stirrup, etc.

One day he came to the ride in a most amiable and condescending humour,
and for the first time deigned to address me--"Whose kid are you?"
demanded he.