IT seems that the Leeds, Huddersfield, and South Staffordshire Railway Company are becoming desperate, and Mr. William Arnold Bainbrigge, their accredited agent, has evinced a desire to do something which shall ensure him the proud title of pigeon plucker to his employers. We always admired cool impudence, and during this very hot weather it is particularly refreshing. The effrontery of Mr. Bainbrigge, and the clique by whom he is instructed and employed, is as palatable as a glass of ice or a bottle of hock. It makes one feel a soft delight while the mind pictures to itself a mass of allottees, in elegant attitudes, before Mr. Bainbrigge, significantly applying their fingers to their noses.
Mr. William Arnold Bainbrigge has lately issued from his office the following elevated effusion—
This delightful little epistle has been addressed to those who, in contempt of all acknowledged rules of plunder, insolently refuse to be plucked.
Lord bless us! this letter has almost taken our breath away. Mark the pathetic strain with which it commences, and, oh, ye who chuckle! conjure up before ye the bundle of unanswered letters that the unfortunate Secretary has had to write, begging for a small contribution. Fancy the stoic valour which that man must have exhibited who, posted at the office door of the Leeds, Huddersfield, and South Staffordshire Junction Railway Company, stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of the post, after “the repeated applications” had been made. Picture to yourselves, oh, contemptuous allottees the misery of that man's disappointment when the postman appeared without the hoped-for post-office orders. We can imagine his fall of countenance — we can mentally see the fit of desperation which followed, and we can behold, while sitting in Fleet Street here, the impetuous rush that was ultimately made to the office of Mr. Wm Arnold Bainbrigge. With lightning speed a letter's framed, and hope begins again to illume him who had felt such desperation before. Hope makes him brave, and, confident in the belief that to-morrow's post will bring the glorious five shillings a share, he extravagantly takes a cab, and drives with anticipated joy elated to his office again. The next morning comes, but who shall paint his disappointment there? All hope is gone, for the postman has not called, because he has no letters for the Leeds, Huddersfield, and South Staffordshire Railway Company. Rage rises on the prostrate wreck of fondly cherished hopes. The unfortunate wight is seized with a sudden desire to destroy his hair — he rushes wildly from his office, betakes him to a chop house — expends his last shilling on a steak, and then only ruminates upon the morrow's danger, in the sombre anticipation of which we beg to leave him.