"What do you mean?"

"I means my droppin' in on you, like this 'ere, just as if you wasn't the one man in all England as I was 'opeful to drop in on."

"And you find me very busy!" said I.

"Lord love me!" said the Postilion, combing his hair so very hard that it wrinkled his brow. "I comes up from Tonbridge this 'ere very afternoon, an', 'avin' drunk a pint over at 'The Bull'

yonder, an' axed questions as none o' they chawbacons could give a answer to, I 'ears the chink o' your 'ammer, an' comin' over 'ere, chance like, I finds--you; I'll be gormed if it ain't a'most onnat'ral!"

"And why?"

"'Cos you was the very i-dentical chap as I come up from Tonbridge to find."

"Were you sent to find me?"

"Easy a bit--you're a blacksmith, a'n't you?"

"I told you so before."

"Wot's more, you looks a blacksmith in that there leather apron, an' wi' your face all smutty. To be sure, you're powerful like 'im--Number One as was--my master as now is--"

"Did he send you to find me?"

"Some folks might take you for a gentleman, meetin' you off'and like, but I knows different."

"As how?"

"Well, I never 'eard of a gentleman turnin' 'isself into a blacksmith, afore, for one thing--"

"Still, one might," I ventured.

"No," answered the Postilion, with a decisive shake of the head, "it's ag'in' natur'; when a gentleman gets down in the world, an'

'as to do summ'at for a livin', 'e generally shoots 'isself--ah!

an' I've knowed 'em do it too! An' then I've noticed as you don't swear, nor yet curse--not even a damn."

"Seldom," said I; "but what of that?"

"I've seed a deal o' the quality in my time, one way or another --many's the fine gentleman as I've druv, or groomed for, an'

never a one on 'em as didn't curse me--ah!" said the Postilion, sighing and shaking his head, "_'ow_ they _did_ curse me!--'specially one--a young lord--oncommon fond o' me 'e were too, in 'is way, to the day 'is 'oss fell an' rolled on 'im. 'Jacob,' says 'e, short like, for 'e were agoin' fast. 'Jacob!' says 'e, 'damn your infernally ugly mug!' says 'e; 'you bet me as that cursed brute would do for me.' 'I did, my lord,' says I, an' I remember as the tears was a-runnin' down all our faces as we carried 'im along on the five-barred gate, that bein' 'andiest. 'Well, devil take your soul, you was right, Jacob, an' be damned to you!' says 'e; 'you'll find a tenner in my coat pocket 'ere, you've won it, for I sha'n't last the day out, Jacob.' An' 'e didn't either, for 'e died afore we got 'im 'ome, an' left me a 'undred pound in 'is will. Ah! gentlemen as is gents is all the same. Lord love you! there never was one on 'em but damned my legs, or my liver, or the chaise, or the 'osses, or the road, or the inns, or all on 'em together. If you was to strip me as naked as the palm o'

your 'and, an' to strip a lord, or a earl, or a gentleman as naked as the palm o' your 'and, an' was to place us side by side --where'd be the difference? We're both men, both flesh and blood, a'n't we?--then where 'd be the difference? 'Oo's to tell which is the lord an' which is the postilion?"

"Who indeed?" said I, setting down my hammer. "Jack is often as good as his master--and a great deal better."

"Why, nobody!" nodded the Postilion, "not a soul till we opened our mouths; an' then 'twould be easy enough, for my lord, or earl, or gentleman, bein' naked, an' not likin' it (which would only be nat'ral), would fall a-swearin' 'eavens 'ard, damning everybody an' cursin' everything, an' never stop to think, while I--not bein' born to it--should stand there a-shiverin' an'

tryin' a curse or two myself, maybe--but Lord! mine wouldn't amount to nothin' at all, me not bein' nat'rally gifted, nor yet born to it--an' this brings me round to 'er!"

"Her?"

"Ah--'er! Number Two--'er as quarrelled wi' Number One all the way from London--'er as run away from Number One--wot about--'er?"

Here he fell to combing his hair again with his whip-handle, while his quick, bright eyes dodged from my face to the glowing forge and back again, and his clean-shaven lips pursed themselves in a soundless whistle. And, as I watched him, it seemed to me that this was the question that had been in his mind all along.

"Seeing she did manage to run away from him--Number One--she is probably very well," I answered.

"Ah--to be sure! very well, you say?--ah, to be sure!" said the Postilion, apparently lost in contemplation of the bellows; "an'

--where might she be, now?"

"That I am unable to tell you," said I, and began to blow up the fire while the Postilion watched me, sucking the handle of his whip reflectively.

"You work oncommon 'ard--drownd me if you don't!"

"Pretty hard!" I nodded.

"An' gets well paid for it, p'r'aps?"

"Not so well as I could wish," said I.

"Not so well as 'e could wish," nodded the Postilion, apparently addressing the sledge-hammer, for his gaze was fixed upon it.

"Of course not--the 'arder a man works the wuss 'e gets paid--'ow much did you say you got a week?"

"I named no sum," I replied.

"Well--'ow much might you be gettin' a week?"

"Ten shillings."

"Gets ten shillin' a week!" he nodded to the sledgehammer, "that ain't much for a chap like 'im--kick me, if it is!"

"Yet I make it do very well!"

The Postilion became again absorbed in contemplation of the bellows; indeed he studied them so intently, viewing them with his head now on one side, now on the other, that I fell to watching him, under my brows, and so, presently, caught him furtively watching me. Hereupon he drew his whip from his mouth and spoke.

"Supposing--" said he, and stopped.

"Well?" I inquired, and, leaning upon my hammer, I looked him square in the eye.

"Supposing--wot are you a-staring at, my feller?"

"You have said 'supposing' twice--well?"

"Well," said he, fixing his eye upon the bellows again, "supposing you was to make a guinea over an' above your wages this week?"

"I should be very much surprised," said I.

"You would?"

"I certainly should."

"Then--why not surprise yourself?"