“Catch him?” repeated the fellow, staring.

“Yes, don’t I tell you he has stolen all the money I possess?”

“Except twopence,” said the fellow.

“Yes—­”

“Well, twopence ain’t to be sneezed at, and if I was you—­”

“Come, we’re losing time,” said I, cutting him short.

“But—­my mare, what about my mare?”

“She’ll stand,” I answered; “she’s tired enough.”

The Bagman, for such I took him to be, sighed, and, blunderbuss in hand, prepared to alight, but, in the act of doing so, paused: 

“Was the rascal armed?” he inquired, over his shoulder

“To be sure he was,” said I.

The Bagman got back into his seat and took up the reins.

“What now?” I inquired.

“It’s this accursed mare of mine,” he answered; “she’ll bolt again, d’ye see—­twice yesterday and once the day before, she bolted, sir, and on a road like this—­”

“Then lend me your blunderbuss.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied, shaking his head.

“But why not?” said I impatiently.

“Because this is a dangerous road, and I don’t intend to be left unarmed on a dangerous road; I never have been and I never will, and there’s an end of it, d’ye see!”

“Then do you mean to say that you refuse your aid to a fellow-traveler—­that you will sit there and let the rogue get away with all the money I possess in the world—­”

“Oh, no; not on no account; just you get up here beside me and we’ll drive to ‘The White Hart.’  I’m well known at ’The White Hart;’ we’ll get a few honest fellows at our heels and have this thieving, rascally villain in the twinkling of an—­” He stopped suddenly, made a frantic clutch at his blunderbuss, and sat staring.  Turning short round, I saw the man in the beaver hat standing within a yard of us, fingering his long pistol and with the same twisted smile upon his lips.

“I’ve a mind,” said he, nodding his head at the Bagman, “I’ve a great mind to blow your face off.”

The blunderbuss fell to the roadway, with a clatter.

“Thievin’, rascally villain—­was it?  Damme!  I think I will blow your face off.”

“No—­don’t do—­that,” said the Bagman, in a strange, jerky voice, “what ’ud be—­the good?”

“Why, that there poor animal wouldn’t have to drag that fat carkiss of yours up and down hills, for one thing.”

“I’ll get out and walk.”

“And it might learn ye to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“I—­I didn’t mean—­any—­offence.”

“Then chuck us your purse,” growled the other, “and be quick about it.”  The Bagman obeyed with wonderful celerity, and I heard the purse chink as the footpad dropped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“As for you,” said he, turning to me, “you get on your way and never mind me; forget you ever had ten guineas and don’t go a-riskin’ your vallyble young life; come—­up with you!” and he motioned me into the tilbury with his pistol.