to my aunt to take down a couple of good
horses, and help her to get into better
society; when I left I should sell them at a
profit. Accordingly I went to the Corner
one rainy day when the town was empty, and
bought a couple of real flyers for an old song,
but for a sum that made a great gap in the
sum I had laid aside for my visit to
Pumpington.

There I meant to finish; but, because it
rained I stayed the sale out, not without
misgivings of the result. The last lot was a
cob, handsome enough for the park, and
strong enough to carry Baron Bullion, but
with a sore back. I hate cobs. I think them
useless; only endurable when bestridden for
constitutional reasons by a banker or
chancellor of the exchequer. But an auction has
always had on me the same exciting effect
that green cloth sevens-the-main, has on
some of my friends. I am fascinated like a
squirrel by a rattlesnake. My wife never
lets me go near a sale since I purchased, without
seeing them, three dozen gridirons in
one lot.

Well, there were no bidders for the cob.
The dealers were full; the cob-riders, if
any, had no taste for a sore back. I have
a famous recipe that never fails. When
I heard the animal that would have fetched
ninety guineas in the spring hanging at
fifteen pounds, I could not resist, but went
in and soon found Hippopotamus knocked
down to me at nineteen pounds nineteen
shillings. Here was a pretty piece of
business! Probably my aunt had no stables
attached to Bhurtpore Villa, for two hunters
and a cob with a sore back.

I amused myself with believing that
perhaps my aunt rode—no, that was too
absurd; well, perhaps she drove. Hippopotamus
should be reduced to a four-wheeler.

In the meantime, by great good luck, I
picked up in the yard one of the grooms I
remembered at Hustings's, a smart, acute
fellow. Besides being a good groom and
coachman, he was something of a surgeon
for horses and men; he was a good cook,
could wait at table, valeted pretty well, and
had a powerful talent for collecting and
retailing news.

A lew days sufficed to get the horses in
order for their journey. I sent them by the
road; and, as they must eat somewhere, I
thought they would be getting into working
order on the way.

I went off by the train. At the first station
I was joined by a gentleman of middle
age, sallow countenance, blue velvet-collared
coat, princely person, and nervous manner,
accompanied by his daughter—all poke
bonnet and blue veil. They had a tremendous
quantity of luggage, a sponge bath, two
saddles—the gentleman's new—and a
remarkably stupid servant.

I don't think I made a favourable impression
at that time upon people of that sort.
I mean respectable sort of people, with offices
in the City, and money in the funds, and all
that sort of thing. I am sure I dressed
quietly enough—a sober travelling suit of
one colour, no rings or chains, no long curls
or moustache. Still, somehow or other, I
always found the fathers of families rather
shy of me when they had their daughters
with them.

So it was with my travelling companion
in the Pumpington train; but, by a happy
accident, Mr. Thinner—you smile, Charles;
I see you guess the best half of the story—
would see, himself, at the first station, whether
his luggage was right. Thank Heaven, it
was all wrong! Sleepyhead, his footman,
had left the bath, the saddles, the
footwarmer, one trunk, one dressing-case, and
one hat-box, behind. Trains do not wait for
raving passengers; but, while he was raving,
I found time to telegraph back to the stationmaster.
By the time we got to the branch
line I had an answer: " Luggage all right—
will be sent on by the next train." This
lucky hit on my part thawed my old gentleman
a bit, and he condescended to talk enough
to let me know that he was a solicitor, one
of the great firm of Thinner, Fellem, and
Phlehm; and having destroyed his digestion
and his nerves by over-work, and perhaps,
though he did not say so, too much port
wine, he was now on his way to Pumpington
to drink the water, take a course of cold
baths and horse exercise—he winced rather
at horse exercise—with "my daughter, also
rather an invalid," under the advice of that
eminent and fashionable M.D., Sir Joseline
Bunks.

You may laugh as you please, but I fell
in love with the daughter at first sight, when
I saw her so quietly and gently manage the
angry head of the firm of Thinner, and so
very calmly and decidedly give Sleepyhead
his discharge. Some rnen like a wife they can
manage—I found one who would manage me;
so I fell in love over ears in three hours
travelling with my Patty; for of course you
have guessed that Mrs. D. is my railway
angel.

Well, although the respectable papa got
on famously about horseflesh, and although
he confided to me his fears lest, after ten
years without practice (since the time he was
in the habit of riding from Hornsey to
Lincoln's Inn), and although he gave me a full
account of several interesting law cases in
which he had been engaged, with bar
anecdotes over which I did not yawn, he parted
from me at the end of our journey with
many formal polite speeches, and a half
apology that the state of his health would
prevent his receiving any company, not even
that of my aunt Mallet, whom I pressed into
my service, and tendered my card with
Bhurtpore Lodge pencilled upon it.

My aunt received me very warmly; the
good soul expressed her astonishment at my