"Hum!" said the gentleman again.
"Now, in my feyther's time," resumed Mottle-face serenely, "the roads vos vorse than they are to-day, ah! a sight vorse, an' as for 'ighvaymen—Lord! they vos as thick as blackberries—blackberries? I should say so! Theer vos footpads be'ind every 'edge—gangs of 'em—an' 'ighvaymen on every 'eath—"
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman, "so many?"
"Many?" snorted Mottle-face, "there vos armies of 'em. But my feyther, as I think I mentioned afore, vere the bravest, boldest, best-plucked coachman as ever sat on a box."
"I hope it runs in the family."
"Sir, I ain't one give to boastin', nor yet to blowin' my own 'orn, but truth is truth, and—it do!"
"Good!" said the fussy gentleman, "very good!"
"Now the vorst of all these rogues vos a cove called Black Dan, a thieving, murdering, desprit wagabone as vere ewcntually 'ung sky-'igh on Pembury 'Ill—"
"Good!" said the fussy gentleman louder than before, "good! Glad of it!"
"An' yet," sighed Mottle-face, "'e 'ad a werry good 'eart—as 'ighvaymen's 'earts go; never shot nobody unless 'e couldn't help it, an' ven 'e did, 'e allus made a werry neat job of it, an' polished 'em off nice an' qvick."