Upon this Footing have these Affairs slept quietly for near ten Years,—and would have slept for ever, but for the unlucky Kicking-Bout; which, as I said, has ripp’d this Squabble up afresh: So that it was no longer ago than last Week, that _Trim_ met and insulted _John_ in the public Town- Way, before a hundred People;—tax’d him with the Promise of the old-cast-Pair-of-black-Breeches, notwithstanding _Trim_’s solemn Renunciation; twitted him with the Pulpit-Cloth and Velvet Cushion,—as good as told him, he was ignorant of the common Duties of his Clerkship; adding, very insolently, That he knew not so much as to give out a common Psalm in Tune.— _John_ contented himself with giving a plain Answer to every Article that _Trim_ had laid to his Charge, and appealed to his Neighbours who remembered the whole Affair;—and as he knew there was never any Thing to be got in wrestling with a Chimney-Sweeper,—he was going to take Leave of _Trim_ for ever.—But, hold,—the Mob by this Time had got round them, and their High Mightinesses insisted upon having _Trim_ tried upon the Spot.—_Trim_ was accordingly tried; and, after a full Hearing, was convicted a second Time, and handled more roughly by one or more of them, than even at the Parson’s. _Trim_, says one, are you not ashamed of yourself, to make all this Rout and Disturbance in the Town, and set Neighbours together by the Ears, about an old-worn-out-Pair-of-cast-Breeches, not worth Half a Crown?—Is there a cast-Coat, or a Place in the whole Town, that will bring you in a Shilling, but what you have snapp’d up, like a greedy Hound as you are? In the first Place, are you not Sexton and Dog-Whipper, worth Three Pounds a Year?—Then you begg’d the Church-Wardens to let your Wife have the Washing and Darning of the Surplice and Church-Linen, which brings you in Thirteen Shillings and Four Pence.—Then you have Six Shillings and Eight Pence for oiling and winding up the Clock, both paid you at _Easter_.—The Pinder’s Place, which is worth Forty Shillings a Year,—you have got that too.—You are the Bailiff, which the late Parson got you, which brings you in Forty Shillings more.—Besides all this, you have Six Pounds a Year, paid you Quarterly for being Mole-Catcher to the Parish.—Aye, says the luckless Wight above-mentioned, (who was standing close to him with his Plush Breeches on) “You are not only Mole-Catcher, _Trim_, but you catch STRAY CONIES too in the _Dark;_ and you pretend a _Licence_ for it, which, I trove, will be look’d into at the next Quarter Sessions.” I maintain it, I have a Licence, says _Trim_, blushing as red as Scarlet:—I have a Licence,—and as I farm a Warren in the next Parish, I will catch Conies every Hour of the Night.—_You catch Conies!_ cries a toothless old Woman, who was just passing by.—