“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.”