While he was speaking, true enough, we began to hear the distant thunder, and soon the chain-lightning performed all the figures of a country-dance. About a mile distant we saw the man and black horse under the cloud; but before he arrived at the toll-gate, the thunder-cloud had spent itself, and not even a sprinkle fell near us.
As the man, whom I instantly knew to be Rugg, attempted to pass, the toll-gatherer swung the gate across the road, seized Rugg’s horse by the reins, and demanded two dollars.
Feeling some little regard for Rugg, I interfered, and began to question the toll-gatherer, and requested him not to be wroth with the man. The toll-gatherer replied that he had just cause, for the man had run his toll ten times, and moreover that the horse had discharged a cannon-ball at him, to the great danger of his life; that the man had always before approached so rapidly that he was too quick for the rusty hinges of the toll-gate; “but now I will have full satisfaction.”
Rugg looked wistfully at me, and said, “I entreat you, sir, to delay me not; I have found at length the direct road to Boston, and shall not reach home before night if you detain me. You see I am dripping wet, and ought to change my clothes.”
The toll-gatherer then demanded why he had run his toll so many times.
“Toll! Why,” said Rugg, “do you demand toll? There is no toll to pay on the king’s highway.”
“King’s highway! Do you not perceive this is a turnpike?”
“Turnpike! there are no turnpikes in Massachusetts.”
“That may be, but we have several in Virginia.”
“Virginia! Do you pretend I am in Virginia?”