It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people
know to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those
unpleasant epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of March,
it was John Willet's pride annually to settle, in hard cash, his account
with a certain vintner and distiller in the city of London; to give into
whose hands a canvas bag containing its exact amount, and not a penny
more or less, was the end and object of a journey for Joe, so surely as
the year and day came round.
This journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom John
had an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the effect that
she could win a plate or cup if she tried. She never had tried, and
probably never would now, being some fourteen or fifteen years of age,
short in wind, long in body, and rather the worse for wear in respect of
her mane and tail. Notwithstanding these slight defects, John perfectly
gloried in the animal; and when she was brought round to the door by
Hugh, actually retired into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of
lemons, laughed with pride.
'There's a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!' said John, when he had recovered
enough self-command to appear at the door again.
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