The Amateur Gentleman

"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--"