Part 8 (1/2)

No, Captain, I should know the Royal Mail, But when did you take up the coaching trade?

I had as soon expect to see old d.i.c.k Throw leg across your Monmouth's gleaming back, Thrust pistols in his belt, and gallop off To make his fortune in the light o' the moon, As to find you, the Master of the Heath, The Devil's Treasurer, the Velvet Mask, The Silver Pistoleer, the Winged Thief, Sitting with down-cast Sabbath-keeping eyes, Sad lips, and nose all fixed for droning psalms, In old d.i.c.k's place upon the Royal Mail.

A proper driver for a coach and four!

ASHMAN

Ha' done! G.o.d's mercy on us! Let me speak, And I will tell you such a waggery Will make you laugh and split your pretty sides: I stole the Royal Mail!

LITTLE GIRL

You stole the Mail?

ASHMAN

Aye, prigged it, Kate! Why, here it is, you see, Box, boot and wheels, four horses and a whip, And on the door King George's coat of arms.

All mine, good la.s.s, all mine. But for a price, A bitter price, dear Kate. For Monmouth's dead!

LITTLE GIRL

What, Monmouth, best of horses, is he dead?

O Captain Thunder, never tell me that!

Why, all the world holds not another horse So glossy black, so fleet, so wise, so kind!

ASHMAN

Yes, Monmouth's dead. d.i.c.k shot him through the heart, And Monmouth dropped without a whinny. But I paid d.i.c.k back. O Monmouth is avenged!

Now, hear me, Kate! I stopped the Royal Mail Last night at twelve o'clock at Carter's Cross, Says I, ”Stand now! And let me have the bags-- That's all I want to-night! Hand over, there!”

d.i.c.k pulls his leaders on their haunches. ”Why,”

Says he, ”it's Captain Thunder! By my wig!

Just help yourself!” I prigged his pistol belt And rode around to look inside the coach.

I got the bags. The pa.s.sengers were three.

My Lord of Bath and Wells--

LITTLE GIRL

A Bishop, what?

ASHMAN

Aye, that he is; white wig and bands and all.

Yes, he's a Bishop. And there was his wife, (A big fat monster of a wife) and then There was a little wizened-looking thing, A sort of curate. Well, I looked at them And laughed to see them tremble in their shoes.

”Good e'en, my Lord,” says I, and doffed my hat.

”How do you like the Royal Mail?” Says he: ”O good Sir Highwayman, pray let me go, Our coach broke down at York, and so we took This public carrier, this dreadful thing, This Royal Mail. O will you let us pa.s.s?

I must get into Hull by dawn, and sleep, For I confirm an hundred souls at noon.”

I listened to him, Kate, and did not see The old fox slip a pistol up to d.i.c.k.

But, bang! h.e.l.l's fury! Down fell Monmouth, dead.

And off I stumbled in the ditch! Well, Kate, d.i.c.k aimed for me, you see, and got the horse.

And I got d.i.c.k. I got him through the head.

And then I joined the Bishop once again.