"I'll report you," said an old gentleman, just roused from his slumbers. "I paid my fare to be driven by the proper coachman, and not by a puppy who probably never sat behind four horses in his life."
"And I'll have you dismissed, coachman, for risking our lives," added another.
Then came a jerk, which caused all the insides to break forth into the following exclamations:
"There, I told you!"
"We are going over!"
"Do, pray, take the reins, Mr. Coachman!"
In the mean time the "swell dragsman" and his young friend were laughing heartily at the fears of their precious burden.
"Lots of fear, ma'am, but no danger," said the former, while the latter inquired where the coachman was going to "shoot his rubbish."
When some experienced amateur took the reins, and with the aid of the whip judiciously applied, sent the sluggish steed along at the rate of ten miles an hour, the scene above described again took place, for the timid female passenger, like the widows of Ashur, was "loud in her wail."
In those days young Etonians, Harrovians, collegians, and officers were all taught to drive by the professional coachmen on the road, and anyone that could manage a refractory team over a stage or two of ten miles was deemed a proficient, and fit to belong to the four-horse driving club.