"Stopped? stopped, coachman? d' you mean—?"
"Ah! stopped by Blue-chinned Jack o' Brockley, or Gallopin' Toby o'
Tottenham, or—"
"Eh—what! what! d' you mean there are highwaymen on this road?"
"'Ighvaymen!" snorted Mottle-face, winking ponderously at Barnabas, "by Goles, I should say so, it fair bristles vith 'em."
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman in an altered tone, "but you are armed, of course?"
"Armed?" repeated Mottle-face, more owl-like of eye than ever, "armed, sir, Lord love me yes! my guard carries a brace o' barkers in the boot."
"I'm glad of that," said the fussy gentleman, "very!"
"Though," pursued Mottle-face, rolling his head heavily, "Joe ain't 'zactly what you might call a dead shot, nor yet a ex-pert, bein' blind in 'is off blinker, d'ye see."
"Eh—blind, d'ye say—blind?" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
"Only in 'is off eye," nodded Mottle-face, reassuringly, "t'other 'un's as good as yours or mine, ven 'e ain't got a cold in it."
"But this—this is an outrage!" spluttered the fussy gentleman, "a guard blind in one eye! Scandalous! I shall write to the papers of this. But you—surely you carry a weapon too?"
"A vepping? Ay, to be sure, sir, I've got a blunder-bush, under this 'ere werry seat, loaded up to the muzzle wi' slugs too,—though it von't go off."
"Won't—eh, what? Won't go off?"
"Not on no account, sir, vich ain't to be 'spected of it, seeing as it ain't got no trigger."
"But—heaven preserve us! why carry such a useless thing?"
"Force of 'abit, sir; ye see, I've carried that theer old blunderbush for a matter of five-an'-twenty year, an' my feyther 'e carried it afore me."
"But suppose we are attacked?"
"Vich I begs to re-mark, sir, as I don't never suppose no such thing, like my feyther afore me. Brave as a lion were my feyther, sir, an' bred up to the road; v'y, Lord! 'e were born vith a coachman's v'ip in 'is mouth—no, I mean 'is fist, as ye might say; an' 'e were the boldest—"
"But what's your father got to do with it?" cried the fussy gentleman.
"What about my valise?"
"Your walise, sir? we'm a-coming to that;" and here, once more, Mottle-face slowly winked his owl-like eye at Barnabas. "My feyther, sir," he continued, "my feyther, 'e druv' the Dartford Mail, an' 'e were the finest v'ip as ever druv' a coach, Dartford or otherwise; 'Andsome 'Arry' 'e vere called, though v'y 'andsome I don't know, seeing as 'is nose veren't all it might ha' been, on account o' a quart pot; an' v'y 'Arry I don't know, seeing as 'is name vos Villiam; but, ''Andsome 'Arry' 'e vere called, an' werry much respected 'e vere too. Lord! there vos never less than a dozen or so young bloods to see 'im start. Ah! a great favorite 'e vere vith them, an' no error, an' werry much admired; admired? I should say so. They copied 'is 'at they copied 'is boots, they copied 'is coat, they'd a copied 'im inside as well as out if they could."
"Hum!" said the fussy gentleman. "Ha!"
"Oh, 'e vos a great fav'rite vith the Quality," nodded Mottle-face. "Ah! it vos a dream to see 'im 'andle the ribbons,—an' spit? Lord! it vos a eddication to see my feyther spit, I should say so! Vun young blood—a dock's son he vere too—vent an' 'ad a front tooth drawed a purpose, but I never 'eard as it done much good; bless you, to spit like my feyther you must be born to it!" (here Mottle-face paused to suit the action to the word). "And, mark you! over an' above all this, my feyther vere the boldest cove that ever—"
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman impatiently, "but where does my valise come in?"
"Your walise, sir," said Mottle-face, deftly flicking the off wheeler, "your walise comes in—at the end, sir, and I'm a-comin' to it as qvick as you'll let me."
"Hum!" said the gentleman again.
"Now, in my feyther's time," resumed Mottle-face serenely, "the roads vos vorse than they are to-day, ah! a sight vorse, an' as for 'ighvaymen—Lord! they vos as thick as blackberries—blackberries? I should say so! Theer vos footpads be'ind every 'edge—gangs of 'em—an' 'ighvaymen on every 'eath—"
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman, "so many?"
"Many?" snorted Mottle-face, "there vos armies of 'em. But my feyther, as I think I mentioned afore, vere the bravest, boldest, best-plucked coachman as ever sat on a box."
"I hope it runs in the family."
"Sir, I ain't one give to boastin', nor yet to blowin' my own 'orn, but truth is truth, and—it do!"
"Good!" said the fussy gentleman, "very good!"
"Now the vorst of all these rogues vos a cove called Black Dan, a thieving, murdering, desprit wagabone as vere ewcntually 'ung sky-'igh on Pembury 'Ill—"
"Good!" said the fussy gentleman louder than before, "good! Glad of it!"
"An' yet," sighed Mottle-face, "'e 'ad a werry good 'eart—as 'ighvaymen's 'earts go; never shot nobody unless 'e couldn't help it, an' ven 'e did, 'e allus made a werry neat job of it, an' polished 'em off nice an' qvick."
"Hum!" said the fussy gentleman, "still, I'm glad he's hanged."
"Black Dan used to vork the roads south o' London,
"Kent an' Surrey mostly, conseqvent it vere a long time afore 'im an' my feyther met; but at last vun night, as my feyther vos driving along—a good fifteen mile an hour, for it vere a uncommon fine night, vith a moon, like as it might be now—"
"Ah?" said the fussy gentleman.
