u6 The Trotter. 



phraseology, I could never "come the dog language right," and he 

 gave up the task in despair. 



Poor old boy ! I dare say he has dropped off his perch this many 

 a year since. The box which he last mounted when alive was a 

 melancholy one to him, for the old Regulator was driven off the 

 road by the rail, and the last time I spied my quondam tutor he 

 was perched on the box of a 'bus near the Mansion House. " Bank, 

 Paddington jump in, sir," shouted the cad. There was room on 

 the box, so I clambered up, and was by the old man's side before 

 he recognised me. I made four journeys over the stones that day 

 alongside the veteran, who was still as great a swell as ever, although 

 a shade seedier than when last I saw him - } and we agreed at night 

 to look in at the old Magpie and Stump for the last time. 



My old tutor's name was Jarvis Frank Jarvis but he was known 

 at that day all down the road as old Joliffe, on account of the pecu- 

 liar boat-shape build of his hat ; and a neater, cleaner, little old man 

 never mounted the box. Although I always style him the old man, 

 he was not so very old, but he had one of those faces which always 

 look old and thoughtful, and never guide one as to the age of the 

 man j and men considerably older than himself, when alluding to 

 him, always used the term " old," although, perhaps, they would 

 have repudiated it themselves. He was invariably scrupulously clean 

 and neat in his dress, and his manners might have gained him ad- 

 mission into the B. D. C. His clothes were always of the same cut 

 and pattern, only the style varied a trifle with the seasons. The 

 neat, hard, close-napped Joliffe was white in the summer, black in 

 the winter (the former he generally managed to win on the Derby, 

 the latter on the Leger). The neckcloth at all seasons was spotless 

 white, as pure as snow. A long brown Newmarket coat, very wide 

 in the skirt, and with pockets very low down, reached to his "hocks," 

 as he would have termed them 5 and a long striped black-and- 

 white stuff waistcoat came down below his hip bones. His breeches 

 were always the same, light drab kerseys $ and the neatest, best- 

 fitting pair of brown top-boots the creases of which natty little 

 Arthur Pavis himself might have envied, but which in winter he 



