“Halloa, master!” shouted the smith, looking after him.  “You’re not to be trusted on the box until you can handle your whip better’n that.”

“What’s that?” cried the driver, pulling up his team.

“I bid you have a care, master, or there will be some one-eyed folk along the road you drive.”

“Oh, you say that, do you?” said the driver, putting his whip into its socket and pulling off his driving-gloves.  “I’ll have a little talk with you, my fine fellow.”

The sporting gentlemen of those days were very fine boxers for the most part, for it was the mode to take a course of Mendoza, just as a few years afterwards there was no man about town who had not had the mufflers on with Jackson.  Knowing their own prowess, they never refused the chance of a wayside adventure, and it was seldom indeed that the bargee or the navigator had much to boast of after a young blood had taken off his coat to him.

This one swung himself off the box-seat with the alacrity of a man who has no doubts about the upshot of the quarrel, and after hanging his caped coat upon the swingle-bar, he daintily turned up the ruffled cuffs of his white cambric shirt.

“I’ll pay you for your advice, my man,” said he.

I am sure that the men upon the coach knew who the burly smith was, and looked upon it as a prime joke to see their companion walk into such a trap.  They roared with delight, and bellowed out scraps of advice to him.

“Knock some of the soot off him, Lord Frederick!” they shouted.  “Give the Johnny Raw his breakfast.  Chuck him in among his own cinders!  Sharp’s the word, or you’ll see the back of him.”

Encouraged by these cries, the young aristocrat advanced upon his man.  The smith never moved, but his mouth set grim and hard, while his tufted brows came down over his keen, grey eyes.  The tongs had fallen, and his hands were hanging free.

“Have a care, master,” said he.  “You’ll get pepper if you don’t.”

Something in the assured voice, and something also in the quiet pose, warned the young lord of his danger.  I saw him look hard at his antagonist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw dropped together.

“By Gad!” he cried, “it’s Jack Harrison!”

“My name, master!”

“And I thought you were some Essex chaw-bacon!  Why, man, I haven’t seen you since the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost me a cool hundred by doing it.”

How they roared on the coach.

“Smoked!  Smoked, by Gad!” they yelled.  “It’s Jack Harrison the bruiser!  Lord Frederick was going to take on the ex-champion.  Give him one on the apron, Fred, and see what happens.”

But the driver had already climbed back into his perch, laughing as loudly as any of his companions.

“We’ll let you off this time, Harrison,” said he.  “Are those your sons down there?”

“This is my nephew, master.”