Ii6 Mr. Metal. 



*' Well, Mr. Metal," say we, as we come across him in the 

 paddock on the Derby Day, gravely looking the favourite 

 over. '' What do you think of him, eh ? " " Well, he's a 

 race-horse, that's about what he is," is his reply ; " and 

 what is more to the purpose in my opinion, mind ye, he's 

 a consistent little 'oss. There hain't much on him, but 

 what there is of him is good." Volumes could not express 

 more. 



Shooting he patronises a little now he is a real landed 

 proprietor, but we are bound to say he is but a numb hand 

 at it, and how reckless ! 



*' Mr. Metal, Mr. Metal, good Gad ! your gun's at full 

 cock ; are you aware of it ? " we exclaimed to him one hot 

 September day, as we came up to him, leaning over a gate, 

 with his chin resting on the muzzle of his breechloader, 

 both barrels of which are at full cock ! 



^' Ah, so they are," was all he said, coolly looking down, 

 and seeing we were right, and resuming his former 

 position. We fully expected to see his brains scattered 

 over the next field every minute. An elaborate luncheon 

 would be sent out on these shooting expeditions, and 

 sometimes our metallic friend would be extremely puzzled 

 by the wonderful productions of the artist in his employ 

 — the afore-mentioned pupil of Francatelli. One fine day 

 in September we recollect watching the luncheon being 

 turned out of the basket. Out came no end of good things, 

 amongst others a raised pie of majestic proportions, 

 Visions of enormous truffles as big as walnuts flitted 

 through our mind. Our mouth watered. (We are passion- 

 ately fond of truffles.) Metal did not view the production 

 in the same light. 



*' Hallo !" he cried, " why, what the blazes does the cook 



