of muscular contraction--examined with something like the air of a connoisseur--occasionally rapping with his agate-headed cane--now against his teeth, then against his legs. He did not seem perfectly satisfied with any of them; they looked--he said--"devilish plain and dull." "Hollo--Mr. Axletree, or whatever your name is--what have we _here_? 'Pon my soul, the very thing!"--he exclaimed, as his eye caught a splendid object--the state-carriage of the ex-sheriff, with its gorgeously decorated panels: which, having been vamped up for some six or seven successive shrievalties--(being on each occasion heralded to the public by laudatory paragraphs in the newspapers, as entirely new and signal instances of the taste and magnificence of the sheriff-elect)--seemed now _perfunctus officio_. Mr. Axle was staggered for a moment, and scarce supposed Mr. Titmouse to be in earnest--Gammon having given him no inkling of the real character of Titmouse; but observing the earnest steadfast gaze with which he regarded the glittering object, having succeeded in choking down a sudden fit of laughter, Mr. Axle commenced a most seductive eulogium upon the splendid structure--remarking on the singularity of the circumstance of its happening just at that exact moment to be placed at his disposal by its former owner--a gentleman of great distinction, who had no longer any occasion for it. Mr. Axle declared that he had had numerous applications for it already; on hearing which, Titmouse got excited. The door was opened--he got in; sat on each seat--"Don't it hang beautifully?" inquired the confident proprietor, testing, by pressure, the elasticity of the springs, as he spoke. "Let me see, who was it that was after it yesterday? Oh--I think it was Sir Fitzbiscuit Gander; but I've not _closed_ with him yet!" "What's your price, Mr. Axletree?" inquired Titmouse, rather heatedly, as he got out of the carriage.