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. 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: