Of the Coachman's Story

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!"