"Is the laal man ever coming?" said Gubblum, smacking his lips and taking a swift survey of the road.
"Why, here he is at sec a skufter as'll brak' his shins!"
At the top of his speed, and breathless, clad in a long coat whose tails almost swept the ground, grasping a fiddle in one hand and a paper in the other, Tom o' Dint came hurrying up.
"Tha's here at last, Tom, ma man. Teem a glass into him, Peter, and let's mak' a start."
"Ye see, I's two men, I is," said the small man, apologetically. "I had my rounds with my letters to do first, and business afore pleasure, you knows."
"Pleasure afore business, say I," cried Gubblum. "Never let yer wark get the upper hand o' yer wages—them's my maxims."
Two coaches came up at the moment, having driven four miles for the purpose of driving four furlongs.
John Proudfoot, without needless courtesy, took the fiddler-postman by the neck of his coat and the garment beneath its tails, and slung him, fiddle and all, on to the saddle of the pony, and held him there a moment, steadying him like a sack with an open mouth.
"Sit thee there as steady as a broody hen; and now let's mak' shift," said the blacksmith.
"But I must go inside first," said the fiddler; "I've a letter for Lawyer Bonnithorne."