I climbed the gate, and sat upon the topmost bar, with my feet on
the third. Then, having pulled the broad brim of my hat down over
my eyes, I took out my clasp knife (it had been given me a few days
before by Roger as a memento) and began to whittle the stick,
whistling a doleful tune.
The coach was by this time within a hundred yards of me.
"Gate! gate!" shouted the postilion, but I paid no heed. There was
now a man on the box; I suppose he had been picked up at the
crossroads. He joined his cry to the postilion's, and together they
roared "Gate!" with many imprecations of the kind that men who deal
with horses have at command.
But I still went on whittling my stick, not without some feeling of
insecurity, for the coach was approaching at a furious speed, and
it seemed impossible that the postilion could draw up in time to
prevent the horses from 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.
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