’To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady’

Steam-boats did not run to Greenwich and Blackwall at this period; and those who resorted to the white-bait establishments at those places, either availed themselves of a coach or a boat.  Being now transformed, by a little personal merit, and a great favour, from a full-grown errand-boy to a small clerk, Mr. Timmis, at the suggestion of my good friend Mr. Wallis, offered me, as a treat, a row in the boat they had engaged for the occasion; which, as a matter of course, I did not refuse:  making myself as spruce as my limited wardrobe would permit, I trotted at their heels to the foot of London-bridge, the point of embarkation.

The party, including the boatman, consisted of eight souls; the tide was in our favour, and away we went, as merry a company as ever floated on the bosom of Father Thames.  Mr. Crobble was the chief mark for all their sallies, and indeed he really appeared, from his size, to have been intended by Nature for a “butt,” as Mr. Wallis wickedly remarked.

“You told, me, Crobble, of your hunting exploit in Hertfordshire,” said Mr. Wallis; “I’ll tell you something as bangs that hollow; I’m sure I thought I should have split with laughter when I heard of it.  You know the old frump, my Aunt Betty, Timmis?”

“To be sure—­she with the ten thousand in the threes,” replied Mr. Timmis; “a worthy creature; and I’m sure you admire her principal.”

“Don’t I,” cried Wallis; and he winked significantly at his friend.

“Well, what d’ye think; she, and Miss Scragg, her toady, were in the country t’other day, and must needs amuse themselves in an airing upon a couple of prads.

“Well; they were cantering along—­doing the handsome—­and had just come to the border of a pond, when a donkey pops his innocent nose over a fence in their rear, and began to heehaw’ in a most melodious strain.  The nags pricked up their ears in a twinkling, and made no more ado but bolted.  Poor aunty tugged! but all in vain; her bay-cob ran into the water; and she lost both her presence of mind and her seat, and plumped swash into the pond—­her riding habit spreading out into a beautiful circle—­while she lay squalling and bawling out in the centre, like a little piece of beef in the middle of a large batter-pudding!  Miss Scragg, meanwhile, stuck to her graymare, and went bumping along to the admiration of all beholders, and was soon out of sight:  luckily a joskin, who witnessed my dear aunt’s immersion, ran to her assistance, and, with the help of his pitch-fork, safely landed her; for unfortunately the pond was not above three or four feet deep! and so she missed the chance of being an angel!”

“And you the transfer of her threes!—­what a pity!” said the sympathizing Mr. Timmis.

“When I heard of the accident, of course, as in duty bound, I wrote an anxious letter of affectionate enquiry and condolence.  At the same period, seeing an advertisement in the Times—­’To be sold, warranted sound, a gray-mare, very fast, and carries a lady; likewise a bay-cob, quiet to ride or drive, and has carried a lady’—­I was so tickled with the co-incidence, that I cut it out, and sent it to her in an envelope.”