t

"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 w