“But what do it matter, sir?” urged the postillion.
“I’d rather go on as I am. I—a—made no arrangement to take you the whole way.”
“Oh!” cried the postillion, “don’t you go troublin’ yourself about that, sir. Master knows it’s touch-and-go about catchin’ the coach. I’m all right.”
So infatuated was the fellow in the belief that he was dealing with a perfect gentleman—an easy pocket!
Now you would not suppose that one who presumes he has sufficient, would find a difficulty in asking how much he has to pay. With an effort, indifferently masked, Evan blurted:
“By the way, tell me—how much—what is the charge for the distance we’ve come?”
There are gentlemen-screws: there are conscientious gentlemen. They calculate, and remonstrating or not, they pay. The postillion would rather have had to do with the gentleman royal, who is above base computation; but he knew the humanity in the class he served, and with his conception of Evan only partially dimmed, he remarked:
“Oh-h-h! that won’t hurt you, sir. Jump along in,—settle that by-and-by.”
But when my gentleman stood fast, and renewed the demand to know the exact charge for the distance already traversed, the postillion dismounted, glanced him over, and speculated with his fingers tipping up his hat. Meantime Evan drew out his purse, a long one, certainly, but limp. Out of this drowned-looking wretch the last spark of life was taken by the sum the postillion ventured to name; and if paying your utmost farthing without examination of the charge, and cheerfully stepping out to walk fifty miles, penniless, constituted a postillion’s gentleman, Evan would have passed the test. The sight of poverty, however, provokes familiar feelings in poor men, if you have not had occasion to show them you possess particular qualities. The postillion’s eye was more on the purse than on the sum it surrendered.
“There,” said Evan, “I shall walk. Good night.” And he flung his cloak to step forward.