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‘Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,’ said he. ‘I haven’t been abed this blessed night.’

Nance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, who was reading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference that she was tempted to suspect him of assumption.

‘Yes,’ continued the ostler, ‘not been the like of it this fifteen years: the North Mail stopped at the three stones.’

Jonathan’s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with a great splutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made so sudden a movement that one corner of the sheet tore off and stayed between his finger and thumb. It was some little time before the old man was sufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept coughing and crying and rubbing his eyes. Mr. Archer, on his side, laid the letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened gravely to the tale.

‘Yes,’ resumed Sam, ‘the North Mail was stopped by a single horseman; dash my wig, but I admire him! There were four insides and two out, and poor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard. Tom showed himself a man; let fly his blunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to that; but the Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched poor Tom a bullet through the body. Tom, he squelched upon the seat, all over blood. Up comes the Captain to the window. “Oblige me,” says he, “with what you have.” Would you believe it? Not a man says cheep!–not them. “Thy hands over thy head.” Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, seven-and-forty pounds overhead in gold. One Dicksee, a grazier, tries it on: gives him a guinea. “Beg your pardon,” says the Captain, “I think too highly of you to take it at your hand. I will not take less than ten from such a gentleman.” This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but there was the pistol at his eye. Down he goes, offs with his stocking, and there was thirty golden guineas. “Now,” says the Captain, “you’ve tried it on with me, but I scorns the advantage. Ten I said,” he says, “and ten I take.” So, dash my buttons, I call that man a man!’ cried Sam in cordial admiration.

‘Well, and then?’ says Mr. Archer.

‘Then,’ resumed Sam, ‘that old fat fagot Engleton, him as held the ribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, picks up his cattle, and drives off again. Down they came to the “Dragon,” all singing like as if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing. You would ‘a’ thought they had all lost the King’s crown to hear them. Down gets this Dicksee. “Postmaster,” he says, taking him by the arm, “this is a most abominable thing,” he says. Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old man by the other arm. “We’ve been robbed,” he cries, “robbed!” Down gets the others, and all around the old man telling their story, and what they had lost, and how they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old Engleton says, says he, “How about Oglethorpe?” says he. “Ay,” says the others, “how about the guard?” Well, with that we bousted him down, as white as a rag and all blooded like a sop. I thought he was dead. Well, he ain’t dead; but he’s dying, I fancy.’

‘Did you say four watches?’ said Jonathan.

‘Four, I think. I wish it had been forty,’ cried Sam. ‘Such a party of soused herrings I never did see–not a man among them bar poor Tom. But us that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of the profit.’

‘And this brave fellow,’ asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, ‘this Oglethorpe–how is he now?’

‘Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through him,’ said Sam. ‘The doctor hasn’t been yet. He’d ‘a’ been bright and early if it had been a passenger. But, doctor or no, I’ll make a good guess that Tom won’t see to-morrow. He’ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and they do say that’s fortunate.’