"Gate!" roared the postilion, looking in at the open door, and receiving no reply he turned his head towards me and demanded with an oath to know where the turnpike keeper was. "He bin gone out," I said, in the broadest Shropshire accent I could muster. "The mischief he is! Who be in charge of the gate then?" Sputtering with wrath the postilion cursed me and demanded to know what I meant by sitting a-top when travelers wished to pass through. I assumed the vacant grin that rustics wear, and said: "The toll be tuppence, measter." "Here it is," says the man, flinging the coins on the ground, "and be hanged to you." I descended from my perch (the man abusing me for my slowness), picked up the money, and went into the cottage as if to get the key. "Be quick about it," roared the postilion after me. "Coming, measter," I replied, sitting on the table, out of his sight. In a little he cried to me again: "What be doin' of? Stir your stumps, I say." "Coming, measter," says I, knocking my knife against the potato pan to signify bustle. The man's language grew more and more violent as the minutes passed and still I did not reappear, until, having consumed as much time as I thought becoming, I went to the doorway, and said, in the manner of stating a simple fact of no importance, "Key binna hangin' on nail, measter. The nail be proper plaace for it: can ya tell me where to look?" My drawling tone seemed to incense the man to the verge of apoplexy. Hurling abuse at me, he ended with a threat to horsewhip me within an inch of my life if I did not instantly find the key and open the gate. At this I shrank back, putting up my hands to guard my head with great affectation of terror, and withdrew once more into the cottage. As I did so, I heard the shutters on the far side of the coach let down, and a voice demanding the reason of the delay. "The pudding-headed scut cannot find the key, sir." "Tell him," said the voice in a louder tone (and I tingled as I recognized it)--"tell him that if he keeps us waiting another minute we will break the gate down." I laughed inwardly at this foolish threat. The gate was a stout barrier, that would do more damage than it could receive from any attempt of theirs. "Bring out the key, rascal," roared the postilion again. "An' you please, measter," says I, appearing in the doorway, "I be afeared the key bin lost." Then the man on the box scrambled down, and ran into the cottage. With him I hunted in every nook and corner of the room, and there being no sign of the key we went out, and to the other side of the coach, and there I heard the coach door open, and the voice cried: "Hold the leader, Jabez; and you, Tom, go to the wheelers' heads. I'll blow in the cursed lock with my pistol."