m dashing themselves against the barrier. He
accomplished that feat, however, and the leading horse came to a
standstill within little more than a foot of me; I could feel its
hot breath on my hand. Like the other two, it was covered with
foam, and their sides were heaving like a bellows.

"Gate!" roared the postilion, looking in at the open door, and
receiving no reply he turned his head towards me and demanded with
an oath to know where the turnpike keeper was.

"He bin gone out," I said, in the broadest Shropshire accent I
could muster.

"The mischief he is! Who be in charge of the gate then?"

Sputtering with wrath the postilion cursed me and demanded to know
what I meant by sitting a-top when travelers wished to pass
through. I assumed the vacant grin that rustics wear, and said:

"The toll be tuppence, measter."

"Here it is," says the man, flinging the coins on the ground, "and
be hanged to you."

I descended from my perch (the man abusing me for my slowness),
picked up the money, and went into the cottage as if to get the
key.

"Be quick about it," roared the postilion after me.

"Coming, measter," I replied, sitting on the table, out of his
sight. In a little he cried to me again:

"What be doin' of? Stir your stumps, I say."

"Coming, measter," says I, knocking my knife against the potato pan
to signify bustle. The man's language grew more and more violent as
the minutes passed and still I did not reappear, until, having
consumed as much time as I thought becoming, I went to the doorway,
and said, in the manner of stating a simple fact of no importance,

"Key binna hangin' on nail, measter. The nail be proper plaace for
it: can ya tell me where to look?"

My drawling tone seemed to incense the man to the verge of
apoplexy. Hurling abuse at me, he ended with a threat to horsewhip
me within an inch of my life if I did not instantly find the key
and open the gate. At this I shrank back, putting up my hands to
guard my head with great affectation of terror, and withdrew once
more into the cottage. As I did so, I heard the shutters on the far
side of the coach let down, and a voice demanding the reason of the
delay.

"The pudding-headed scut cannot find the key, sir."

"Tell him," said the voice in a louder tone (and I tingled as I
recognized it)--"tell him that if he keeps us waiting another
minute we will break the gate down."

I laughed inwardly at this foolish threat. The gate was a stout