A countryman, in a smock-frock, was busily engaged at his morning's meal.
"To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had fasted for a month," said Coates; "see the wholesome effects of an honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite—I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place."
The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.
"An ugly dog!" exclaimed Paterson: "what a devil of a twist he has got!"
"What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?" asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.
"Have you seen aught of him?" asked Coates.
"Not I," mumbled the rustic; "but I hears aw the folks hereabouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to cotch him—ha, ha! He gets over more ground in a day than they do in a week—ho, ho!"
"That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. "He has cut his own throat—ridden his famous mare to death."
The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt a huge mouthful. "Ay—indeed, measter! How happened that?" asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.
"The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned Coates; "such a feat was never performed before. What horse could be expected to live through such work as that?"