“King’s highway! Do you not perceive this is a turnpike?” “Turnpike! there are no turnpikes in Massachusetts.” “That may be, but we have several in Virginia.” “Virginia! Do you pretend I am in Virginia?” Rugg then, appealing to me, asked how far it was to Boston. Said I, “Mr. Rugg, I perceive you are bewildered, and am sorry to see you so far from home; you are, indeed, in Virginia.” “You know me, then, sir, it seems; and you say I am in Virginia. Give me leave to tell you, sir, you are the most impudent man alive; for I was never forty miles from Boston, and I never saw a Virginian in my life. This beats Delaware!” “Your toll, sir, your toll!” “I will not pay you a penny,” said Rugg; “you are both of you highway robbers. There are no turnpikes in this country. Take toll on the king’s highway! Robbers take toll on the king’s highway!” Then in a low tone, he said, “Here is evidently a conspiracy against me; alas, I shall never see Boston! The highways refuse me a passage, the rivers change their courses, and there is no faith in the compass.” But Rugg’s horse had no idea of stopping more than one minute; for in the midst of this altercation, the horse, whose nose was resting on the upper bar of the turnpike-gate, seized it between his teeth, lifted it gently off its staples, and trotted off with it. The toll-gatherer, confounded, strained his eyes after his gate. “Let him go,” said I, “the horse will soon drop your gate, and you will get it again.” I then questioned the toll-gatherer respecting his knowledge of this man; and he related the following particulars:--