“The court house stood nearly at the opposite end of the village, from that out of which led the road to Squankum, and when I mounted my horse, Slashbey was scouring down the main street some hundred yards ahead. Before a minute, however, the sheriff and his pack were in full cry at the fugitive’s heels, while as many of the spectators as could find horses and vehicles started off, a few to aid the law, but most to enjoy the sport. And, by my faith! what a sight it was! Foremost in the chase gallopped the sheriff, his hat off and his queue flying behind, bawling himself red in the face by cries of ‘stop thief,’ ‘head him off,’ ‘maintain the laws,’ amid the laughter of some and the shouts of others of the crowd. At every few leaps Slashbey would turn his face ruefully around to see whether his pursuers gained on him or not—reminding one of Tam O’Shanter, of blissful memory, when he saw the witches yelling after him. The captain would never have won the prize at Astley’s for horsemanship, and now, what betwixt his hurry and affright, he rode like a frightened monkey at a circus. Gilpin did not create more excitement in his famous race. The shopmen left their counters, the blacksmith hurried from his forge, the school children followed the pedagogue to the window, and the very chanticleers, unwilling to let the hubbub go by without they partook in it, flapped their wings on the garden fences and crowed lustily. But with your leave, I’ll pause to fill my glass, for a man telling a story is like a steam-engine—he can’t get on without he keeps the fire blazing.