asked William.
‘Ain’t I what?’ said the gentleman behind.
‘Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?’
‘I should think so,’ said the gentleman.
‘There ain’t no sort of orse that I ain’t bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me — lodging, wife, and children — reading, writing, and Arithmetic — snuff, tobacker, and sleep.’
‘That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it though?’ said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.
I construed this remark into an