The only other occupant was a young minister in a white tie, puffing comfortably at his cigar, which in the manner of so many Dutchmen he seemed to eat as he smoked.

For a while we were raced--and for a few yards beaten--by two jolly boys in a barrow drawn by a pair of gallant dogs who foamed past us _ventre a terre_ with six inches of flapping tongue.
The introduction into England of dogs as beasts of draught would I suppose never be tolerated.

A score of humanitarian societies would spring into being to prevent it: possibly with some reason, for one has little faith in the considerateness of the average English costermonger or barrow-pusher.

And yet the dog-workers of the Netherlands seem to be cheerful beasts, wearing their yoke very easily.

I have never seen one, either in Holland or Belgium, obviously distressed or badly treated.