“Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last: this won’t do, you know.”
“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
“No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.”
“Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a very dreadful murder it was.”
“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”
“A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed——”
“Now, Ben,” cried the coachman impatiently.
“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”
“Coming,” cried the office-keeper, running out.