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Figg, the stud-groom,
thus addressed his master:
'This be Mr. Buckram, sir, of London, sir; says he knows our brown 'orse,
sir.'
'Ah, indeed,' observed Mr. Waffles, taking a cigar from his mouth; 'knows
no good of him, I should think. What part of London do you live in, Mr.
Buckram?' asked he.
'Why, I doesn't exactly live in London, my lord--that's to say, sir--a
little way out of it, you know--have a little hindependence of my own, you
understand.'
'Hang it, how should I understand anything of the sort--never set eyes on
you before,' replied Mr. Waffles.
The half-crowns now began to descend singly in the pocket, keeping up a
protracted jingle, like the notes of a lazy, undecided musical snuff-box.
By the time the last had dropped, Mr. Buckram had collected himself
sufficiently to resume.
Taking the ash-plant away from his mouth, with which he had been
barricading his lips, he observed--
'I know'd that oss when Lord Bullfrog had him,' nodding his head at our old
friend as he spoke.
'The deuce you did!' observed Mr.


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