At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. If our young person hadn’t had the nurse part cut out, eh? She might have known more and done less. “I say!” he cried. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel. Then he sensed the trap.
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