bargained with me, I should have told him that he should have looked
to these things before his carriage went out of our yard."

The indignation of Lord Colambre kindled at these words--but in vain:
to all that indignation could by word or look urge against Mordicai,
he replied, "May be so, sir: the law is open to your friend--the law
is open to all men, who can pay for it."

Lord Colambre turned in despair from the callous coachmaker, and
listened to one of his more compassionate-looking workmen, who was
reviewing the disabled curricle; and, whilst he was waiting to know
the sum of his friend's misfortune, a fat, jolly, Falstaff-looking
personage came into the yard, and accosted Mordicai with a degree of
familiarity which, from a gentleman, appeared to Lord Colambre to be
almost impossible.

"How are you, Mordicai, my good fellow?" cried he, speaking with a
strong Irish accent.

"Who is this?" whispered Lord Colambre to the foreman, who was
examining the curricle.

"Sir Terence O'Fay, sir--There must be entire new wheels."

"Now tell me, my tight fellow," continued Sir Terence, holding
Mordicai fast, "when, in the name of all the saints, good or bad, in
the calendar, do you reckon to let us sport the _suicide_?"

"Will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this estimate for me?"
interrupted Lord Colambre.