1 70 The Trotter. 



About a year afterwards, I happened to be in London, and pass- 

 ing along the top of Farringdon-street one afternoon, I saw a crowd 

 assembled. When I got up I observed two or three policemen taking 

 charge of a horse in harness^ with a pair of broken shafts hanging at 

 his sides. Little groups of bystanders, as usual in such cases, were 

 standing round, discussing what had taken place. It was quite plain 

 that there had been an awful smash, for I observed two or three more 

 men lifting up a cab, which had apparently been upset also. I ven- 

 tured to ask a beery stableman, who stood smoking his pipe at a 

 little distance from the crowd, backing and filling like a ship in stays, 

 if he could tell me what had been the matter, and I received from 

 him the following graphic account of the transaction, much in the 

 words of the "Confused individual," in Punch, but uttered with 

 such volubility, and in so thick a voice, that I could hardly follow 

 the narrator 



"Matter, sir! gentleman's 'oss run away with a broom, sir. Never 

 see anythink like it in all my born days. Down he comes the 'ill with 

 the sharves a danglin' all about his legs knocks a butcher's cart into 

 a linendraper's shop bangs up agin a carridge-and-pair smashes 

 the pannels all to bits, hupsets a phe-aton, and, if he 'adn't a 

 run up agin this here cab and dashed it right over, and stopt hisself, 

 blowed if I don't think there' d ha' been some h accident!" 



I thanked my informant, and pushed through the crowd to get a 

 nearer view of the horse who had so much distinguished himself, 

 and great was my surprise when, in the hands of two policemen 

 talking to the captain, with (apparently) his groom I recognised 

 my old friend Morgan Rattler. Yes, I could not be mistaken, even 

 if I had not known that well-bewhiskered, foxy face at a glance j 

 for there were the drooping ear, the deeply-fired legs, the fine shape, 

 and peculiar dun colour to swear by. And there the old horse 

 stood, apparently as fresh as on the day when he met Patty Morgan 

 at the Woolpack; and, as he defiantly looked round him, seemed to 

 intimate that he was quite ready for such another burst if they would 

 only put him into harness again. 



