Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. ” “But I can’t do that. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. I promise not to do it again. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. Wood. "Where is he?" he cried.
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