“Rubbish may be shot here!”

his eyes caught the words, and in the bitterness of his heart he exclaimed—­

“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.

“Father’s, sir,” I replied.

“Do you know your father, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A wise child this;” and he winked at the ostler, who, of course, laughed incontinently.

“I want a-lad,” continued he; “what do you say—­would you like to serve me?”

“If I could get any thing by it.”

“D-me, if that a’int blunt.”

“Yes, sir; that’s what I mean.”

“Mean! mean what?”

“If I could get any blunt, sir.”

Hereupon he laughed outright, at what he considered my readiness, although I merely used the cant term for “money,” to which I was most accustomed, from my education among the schoolmasters of the ride.

“Here, take my card,” said he; “and tell the old codger, your father, to bring you to my office to-morrow morning, at eleven.”

“Well, blow me,” exclaimed my friend the ostler, “if your fortin’ arn’t made; I shall see you a tip-top sawyer—­may I never touch another tanner!  Vy, I remembers Jim Timmis hisself vos nothin but a grubby boy—­Mother Timmis the washer-woman’s son, here in what-d’ve-call-’em-court—­ven he vent to old Jarvis fust.  He’s a prime feller tho’, and no mistake—­and thof he’s no gentleman born, he pays like one, and vot’s the difference?”

The next morning, punctual to the hour, I waited at his office, which was in a large building adjoining the Stock Exchange, as full as a dove-cot, with gentlemen of the same feather.

“O!” said he, eyeing my parent, “and you’re this chap’s father, are you?  What are you?”

“A boot and shoe-maker, sir; and my Andrew is an honest lad.”