I, Larry Brady, that am telling your honour, have a good right to know, for myself, and my father, and my brother.

Pat Brady, the wheelwright, had once a farm under him; but was ruined, horse and foot, all along with him, and cast out, and my brother forced to fly the country, and is now working in some coachmaker's yard, in London; banished he is!--and here am I, forced to be what I am--and now that I'm reduced to drive a hack, the agent's a curse to me still, with these bad roads, killing my horses and wheels and a shame to the country, which I think more of--Bad luck to him!' 'I know your brother; he lives with Mr.Mordicai, in Long Acre, in London.' 'Oh, God bless you for that!' They came at this time within view of a range of about four-and-twenty men and boys, sitting astride on four-and-twenty heaps of broken stones, on each side of the road; they were all armed with hammers, with which they began to pound with great diligence and noise as soon as they saw the carriage.

The chaise passed between these batteries, the stones flying on all sides.
'How are you, Jem ?--How are you, Phil ?' said Larry.

'But hold your hand, can't ye, while I stop and get the stones out of the horses' FEET.

So you're making up the rent, are you, for St.Dennis ?' 'Whoosh!' said one of the pounders, coming close to the postillion, and pointing his thumb back towards the chaise.