I have always protested against this carelessness and slovenliness of the English poor.

In an essay that I once read before an appreciative audience--' 'It ain't string,' said the carrier sullenly, 'it's pack-thread.' 'I have always protested,' resumed the old man, 'that in their private and domestic life, as well as in their labouring career, the lower classes of this country are improvident, thriftless, and extravagant.

A stitch in time--' 'Who the devil ARE the lower classes ?' cried the carrier.

'You are the lower classes yourself! If I thought you were a blooming aristocrat, I shouldn't have given you a lift.' The words were uttered with undisguised ill-feeling; it was plain the pair were not congenial, and further conversation, even to one of Mr Finsbury's pathetic loquacity, was out of the question.

With an angry gesture, he pulled down the brim of the forage-cap over his eyes, and, producing a notebook and a blue pencil from one of his innermost pockets, soon became absorbed in calculations.
On his part the carrier fell to whistling with fresh zest; and if (now and again) he glanced at the companion of his drive, it was with mingled feelings of triumph and alarm--triumph because he had succeeded in arresting that prodigy of speech, and alarm lest (by any accident) it should begin again.