The cart was "dumped" and a large, lazy-looking Flemish horse was attached to it with a rope harness. Some boards were laid across the cart for seats, the party tumbled into the rustic vehicle, a red-haired boy, son of the old farmer, mounted the horse, and Stratton gave orders to "get along." "Wait a moment," said the farmer, "you have not paid me yet." "I'll pay your boy when we get to Brussels, provided he gets there within the hour," replied Stratton. "Oh, he is sure to get there in an hour," said the farmer, "but I can't let him go unless you pay in advance." The minutes were flying rapidly, the anticipated loss of the day exhibition of General Tom Thumb flitted before his eyes, and Stratton, in very desperation, thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth sixteen five-franc pieces, which he dropped, one at a time, into the hand, of the farmer, and then called out to the boy, "There now, do try to see if you can go ahead." The boy did go ahead, but it was with such a snail's pace that it would have puzzled a man of tolerable eyesight to have determined whether the horse was moving or standing still. To make it still more interesting, it commenced raining furiously. As they had left Brussels in a coach, and the morning had promised a pleasant day, they had omitted umbrellas. They were soon soaked to the skin, but they "grinned and bore it" a while without grumbling. At length Stratton, who was almost too angry to speak, desired Mr. Pinte to ask the red haired boy if he expected to walk his horse all the way to Brussels. "Certainly," replied the boy; "he is too big and fat to do anything but walk. We never trot him." Stratton was terrified as he thought of the loss of the day exhibition; and he cursed the boy, the cart, the rain, the luck, and even the battle of Waterloo itself. But it was all of no use; the horse would not run, but the rain did--down their backs. At two o'clock, the time appointed for the exhibition, they were yet some seven miles from Brussels. The horse walked slowly and philosophically through the pitiless storm, the steam majestically rising from the old manure-cart, to the no small disturbance of their unfortunate olfactories. "It will take two hours to get to Brussels at this rate," growled Stratton. "Oh, no," replied the boy; "it will only take about two hours from the time we started." "But your father agreed to get us there in an hour," answered Stratton. "I know it," responded the boy, "but he knew it would take more than two." "I'll sue him for damages, by thunder!" said Stratton. "Oh, there would be no use in that," chimed in Mr. Pinte, "for you could get no satisfaction in this country." "But I shall lose more than a hundred dollars by being two hours instead of one," said Stratton. "They care nothing about that; all they care for is your eighty francs," remarked Pinte. "But they have lied and swindled me," replied Stratton. "Oh, you must not mind that; it is the custom of the country."