Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. I will never consent till I see him. It isn’t law, nor custom, nor masculine violence settled that. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. I've got an address here.
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