63 OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS. 



What strikes me about Trott's gig, is, considering Trott's 

 profession, its remarkable appearance of carelessness. 



It has, evidently, seen a great deal of wear and tear. The 

 wear being in the wood part, and the tear in the leather. 



Trott's horse — which he drives apparently so negligently, 

 that I've half a mind to ask him whether it wouldn't be as 

 well to hold the reins a little tighter, only that he's a Vet, 

 and ;;z?/j/ know what he's about — is a long-backed, anyhow- 

 jointed animal, slinging along as negligently as Trott drives, 

 with his liead straight out in a lolloping way, as if he were 

 over-weighted in the nose. I notice, too, that he moves with 

 an occasional hitch-up of his hind-quarters, remanding me of 

 a stage-sailor's action, when he says, " Ay, ay, Sir ! " 



Happy Tho2tgJit. — Evidently an animal for a Horse 

 Marine. Suggest to Trott to send him out to the Gold 

 Coast, as a first instalment towards a Mounted Contingent. 



I tell Trott what I want him to do, and he is of opinion 

 that I am quite right to call him in. 



" It's worth your while to wait," Mr. Trott says, "and to 

 give a ten-pun' note more for a horse that won't come down 

 on his nose within a week after you've bought him." 



Quite so. My sentiments exactly. I say " Yes, as long 

 as I get something that suits me, I don't mind a ten-pound 

 note either way." By which / mean ten pounds less, if pos- 

 sible. 



"Just so," says Mr. Trott. 



We turn in at a gate. A tumble-down house, dirty, sloshy 

 road; and dilapidated-looking outbuildings. 



