Some remote fragment of Main Line to somewhere
else, there was, which was going to ruin the Money Market if it
failed, and Church and State if it succeeded, and (of course), the
Constitution, whether or no; but even that had already so unsettled
Cloisterham traffic, that the traffic, deserting the high road,
came sneaking in from an unprecedented part of the country by a
back stable-way, for many years labelled at the corner: 'Beware of
the Dog.'
To this ignominious avenue of approach, Mr. Crisparkle repaired,
awaiting the arrival of a short, squat omnibus, with a
disproportionate heap of luggage on the roof - like a little
Elephant with infinitely too much Castle - which was then the daily
service between Cloisterham and external mankind. As this vehicle
lumbered up, Mr. Crisparkle could hardly see anything else of it
for a large outside passenger seated on the box, with his elbows
squared, and his hands on his knees, compressing the driver into a
most uncomfortably small compass, and glowering about him with a
strongly-marked face.
'Is this Cloisterham?' demanded the passenger, in a tremendous
voice.
'It is,' replied the driver, rubbing himself as if he ached, after
throwing the reins to the ostler. 'And I never was so glad to see
it.'
'Tell your master to make his box-seat wider, then,' returned the
passenger. 'Your master is morally bound - and ought to be
legally, under ruinous penalties - to provide for the comfort of
his fellow-man.
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