“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all—no danger of being smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”
“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”
“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”
“You can’t—it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them fast, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road. In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though covered with snow.
“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”
“Not been long, my lad—why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”
“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this month.”
“Well, sir, we are not travelling now—we are at a stand-still, and no mistake.”
“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”