Dick found the labour of knocking hemp—the usual employ of prisoners in the gaols of North Lincolnshire at that period—to be but pitiful "fun." And when he reflected that he would be likely to come there again, or to some worse place, if he ever afterwards ventured to renew his practice of "snickling" hares, he steadily resolved to "work like his father and his brother Ned," as Farmer Dobson advised. Dick's views on the Game Laws never altered; but he felt, after this sorrowful experience, it would be worse than folly to dream of violating them with impunity, in a country where "the rich all hung together on their own side of the wheat sack," as Kiah Dobson had observed. Now and then, when he happened to have shaken hands too freely with his old acquaintance Sir John Barleycorn, even years after his imprisonment, Raven Dick would be liable to relapse into some shade of his old feeling, and putting on a "gallows-look," as the landlord of the Harrows and Plough, in Froddingham, used to call it, he would threaten to return to his old trade. But there was one saying which, when "passed about" on the long settle of the public-house, was always sure to raise a hearty chorus of laughter at Dick's expense, and to have the effect of dispelling, in a twinkling, all Dick's dreams of having more "fun:" it was—"Who scratched the Bull?" TIM SWALLOW-WHISTLE, THE TAILOR; OR, "EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY." Tim Swallow-whistle, the tailor, lived at Horncastle, a thriving little agricultural town in the centre of Lincolnshire, and now well-known even to the verge of Europe for its prodigious yearly horse fair, to which Russ and Pruss, Netherlander and Austrian, Frenchman, Swiss, and Italian, with even, at times, the turban'd Turk, may be beheld flocking to purchase from the rare show of steeds: "but let that pass!" Tim was not one of your fashionable tailors, it is true, but he was reckoned an "uncommon neat hand" at his trade. Indeed, old Cocky Davy, who was a very emperor among the Lincolnshire tailors, always declared Tim to be the cleverest apprentice that ever received his indentures at his hands. Old Cocky—he was so termed on account of the particular loftiness of his carriage—Old Cocky had one especial maxim; it was, "Strike your needle dead, you dog; and make your thread cry 'twang!'"—and no one apprentice that ever sat upon Davy's shop-board so fully gratified his master by the gallant and complete style in which he fulfilled this maxim, as did Tim Swallow-whistle. Cocky Davy was often heard to say—ay, and to swear it too, when in his cups—that it did his heart good to see the masterly manner in which Tim used to strike the cloth. And then, for finishing a button-hole, "Good heavens!"—Cocky Davy would declare in the White Swan parlour, when the clock was on the stroke of twelve—"why, Tim could turn the thing off his fingers with every cast of the thread as regular and exact as if he had worked it by geometry;" and then Cocky would thump his pewter