"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.
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