"Good Lord!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
"'Stand an' deliver!' roars the masked man, so my feyther, cocking
'is heye at the pistols, pulls up, an' there 'e is, starin' down at
the 'ighvayman, an' the 'ighvayman staring up at 'im. 'You 're
'Andsome 'Arry, ain't you?' sez the 'ighvayman. 'Ay,' sez my feyther,
'an' I guess you 're Black Dan.' 'Sure as you 're born!' sez Black
Dan, 'I've 'eered o' you before to-day, 'Andsome 'Arry,' sez 'e,
'an' meant to make your acquaintance afore this, but I 've been kep'
too busy till to-night,' sez 'e, 'but 'ere ve are at last,' 'e sez,
'an' now--vot d' ye think o' that?' sez 'e, an' pi'nts a pistol
under my feyther's werry nose. Now, as I think I 've 'inted afore,
my feyther vere a nat'rally bold, courage-ful cove, so 'e took a
look at the murderous vepping, an' nodded. 'It's a pistol, ain't it?'
sez 'e. 'Sure as you're settin' on that there box, it is,' sez Black
Dan, 'an' 'ere's another.' 'An' werry good veppings too,' sez my
feyther, 'but vot might you be vanting vith me, Black Dan?' 'First
of all, I vants you to come down off that box,' sez Black Dan. 'Oh?'
sez my feyther, cool as a coocumber. 'Ah!' sez Black Dan. 'Verefore
an' v'y?' enkvires my feyther, but Black Dan only vagged 'is
veppings in my feyther's face, an' grinned under 'is mask. 'I vants
you, so, 'Andsome 'Arry--come down!' sez 'e. Now I've told you as my
feyther vos the boldest--"
"Yes, yes," cried the fussy gentleman. "Well?"
"Vell, sir, my feyther stared at them murderous pistols, stared at
Black Dan, an' being the werry gamest an' bravest cove you ever see,
didn't 'esitate a second."
"Well," cried the fussy gentleman, "what did he do then?"
"Do, sir--v'y I'll tell you--my feyther--come down."
"Yes, yes," said the fussy gentleman, as Mottle-face paused.
"Go on, go on!"
"Go on v'ere, sir?"
"Go on with your story. What was the end of it?"
"V'y, that's the end on it."
"But it isn't; you haven't told us what happened after he got down.
What became of him after?"
"Took the 'Ring o' Bells,' out Islington vay, an' drank hisself to
death all quite nat'ral and reg'lar."
"But that's not the end of your story."
"It vere the end o' my feyther though--an' a werry good end it vere,
too."
Now here there ensued a silence, during which the fussy gentleman
stared fixedly at Mottle-face, who chirruped to the horses
solicitously, and turned a serene but owl-like eye up to the waning
moon.
"And pray," said the fussy gentleman at length, very red in the face,
and more indignant than ever, "pray what's all this to do with my
valise, I should like to know?"