"Yer honour'll consider the bad way, I expict." 'His honour' had reason to remember it.

They were going down Bank St., where the fall of ground was rather rapid, and the travel of the morning had not yet been enough to break up the smooth glare of the frozen sleet.

The Irishman and the barrow got upon a run, the former crying out, "Och, it _will_ go, yer honour!" -- and as it would go, it chose its own course, which was to run full tilt against a cart which stood quietly by the sidewalk.

Neither Michael's gravity nor that of the wheelbarrow could stand the shock.

Both went over, and the unlucky trunk was tumbled out into the middle of the street.
But the days when the old trunk could have stood such usage were long past.