The Amateur Gentleman

Long before the lights of the "White Lion" had vanished behind them,

the guard blows a sudden fanfare on the horn, such a blast as goes

echoing merrily far and wide, and brings folk running to open doors

and lighted windows to catch a glimpse of the London Mail ere it

vanishes into the night; and so, almost while the cheery notes ring

upon the air, Tenterden is behind them, and they are bowling along

the highway into the open country beyond. A wonderful country this,

familiar and yet wholly new; a nightmare world where ghosts and

goblins flit under a dying moon; where hedge and tree become monsters

crouched to spring, or lift knotted arms to smite; while in the

gloom of woods beyond, unimagined horrors lurk.

But, bless you, Mottle-face, having viewed it all under the slant of

his hat-brim, merely settles his mottled chin deeper in his shawls,

flicks the off ear of the near leader with a delicate turn of the

wrists, and turning his owl-like eye upon Barnabas, remarks that

"It's a werry fine night!" But hereupon the fussy gentleman, leaning

over, taps Mottle-face upon the shoulder.

"Coachman," says he, "pray, when do you expect to reach The Borough,

London?"

"Vich I begs to re-mark, sir," retorts Mottle-face, settling his

curly-brimmed hat a little further over his left eye, "vich I 'umbly

begs to re-mark as I don't expect nohow!"

"Eh--what! what! you don't expect to--"

"Vich I am vun, sir, as don't novise expect nothin', consequent am

never novise disapp'inted," says Mottle-face with a solemn nod;

"but, vind an' veather permittin', ve shall be at the 'George' o'

South'ark at five, or thereabouts!"

"Ha!" says the fussy gentleman, "and what about my valise? is it safe?"

"Safe, ah! safe as the Bank o' England, unless ve should 'appen to

be stopped--"

"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."