There is a grim-looking fellow, with the great fists, a blacksmith, who is at deadly enmity with that light firm-looking man--touching the shoeing of M'Clutchy's cavalry.

Val, who knows a thing or two, if I may so speak, keeps them one off and the other on so admirably, that he contrives to get his own horses shod and all his other iron work done, free, _gratis_, for nothing between them.

This is the truth, brother Weasel: in fact my dear brother Weasel, it is the truth.

There are few here who are not moved by some personal hope or expectation from something or from somebody.

Down there near the door are a set of fellows--whisper in your ear--about as great scoundrels as you could meet with; insolent, fierce, furious men, with bad passions and no principles, whose chief delight is to get drunk--to kick up party feuds in fairs and markets, and who have, in fact, a natural love for strife.