“Well, old fellow, d___ me me, if you ain’t a trump--how’s your wind?”
—­kindly enquired Mr. Timmis.

“Vastly better, thank’ye; how’s Wallis and the other fellows?—­prime sport that cricketing.”

“Yes; but, I say, you’ll never have ‘a run’ of luck, if you stick to the wicket so.”

“True; but I made a hit or two, you must allow,” replied Mr. Crobble; “though I’m afraid I’m a sorry member.”

“A member, indeed!—­no, no; you’re the body, and we’re the—­members,” replied Mr. Timmis, laughing; “but, halloo! what’s that patch on your forehead—­bin a fighting?”

“No; but I’ve been a hunting,” said Mr. Crobble, “and this here’s the fruits—­You know my gray?”

“The nag you swopp’d the bay roadster for with Tom Brown?”

“Him,” answered Crobble.  “Well, I took him to Hertfordshire Wednesday last—­”

“He took you, you mean.”

“Well, what’s the odds?”

“The odds, why, in your favour, to be sure, as I dare say the horse can witness.”

“Well, howsomever, there was a good field—­and off we went.  The level country was all prime; but he took a hedge, and nearly julked all the life out o’ me.  I lost my stirrup, and should have lost my seat, had’nt I clutched his mane—­”

“And kept your seat by main force?”

“Very good.”

“Well, away we went, like Johnny Gilpin.  Hunting may be sport, says I, but I’m blest if its pleasure.  This infernal horse was always fond of shying, and now he’s going to shy me off; and, ecod! no sooner said than done.  Over his head I go, like a rocket.”

“Like a foot-ball, you mean,” interrupted Mr. Timmis.

“And, as luck would have it, tumbles into a ditch, plump with my head agin the bank.”

“By jingo! such a ‘run’ upon the bank was enough to break it,” cried my master, whose propensity to crack a joke overcame all feeling of sympathy for his friend.

“It broke my head though; and warn’t I in a precious mess—­that’s all—­up to my neck, and no mistake—­and black as a chimney-sweep—­such mud!”

“And only think of a man of your property investing his substance in mud!  That is a good ’un!—­Andrew,” said he, “tell Wally to come here.”  I summoned his crony, and sat myself down to the books, to enjoy the sportive sallies of the two friends, who roasted the ‘fat buck,’ their loving companion, most unmercifully.

“You sly old badger,” cried Wallis, “why, you must have picked out the ditch.”

“No, but they picked out me, and a precious figure I cut—­I can tell you —­I was dripping from top to toe.”

“Very like dripping, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, eyeing his fat friend, and bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter.  The meeting ended, as usual, with a bet for a dinner at the “Plough” for themselves and their friends, which Mr. Crobble lost—­as usual.

CHAPTER IX.—­A Row to Blackwall.