he guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the

coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he

could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two

Testaments that they were not fit for the journey.

“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and

you’re at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble

enough to get you to it!Joe!”

“Halloa!” the guard replied.

“What o’clock do you make it, Joe?”

“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”

“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of

Shooter’s yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”

The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided

negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other

horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with

the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side. They

had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close

company with it. If any one of the three had had the hardihood to

propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and

darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot

instantly as a highwayman.

The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The

horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid

the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door to let the

passengers in.

“Ts