“I’ll just tell y’, gentlemen. There was some bullion to be sent up to London from India. It had been landed at Falmouth. Now the authorities had some suspicion, and so they didn’t send it the way as was intended. I had orders quite independent—I knowed nothing about it—to go to Chudleigh; I reckon there was a gentleman there as wanted me to drive him across the moors to Tavistock, and he knowed he could rely on me. He was to start early in the morning, so I drove in the direction in the evening before, with a close conveyance, as I knew there might be rough weather and rain next day going over the moors. “I hadn’t got half-way when I was stopped by a man on horseback with his face blackened. He held a pistol and levelled it at my head; I had no mind to be shot, so I pulled up. In a rough voice he asked me who was in the chaise. ‘No one,’ said I. ‘But there is something,’ said he. ‘Nothing in the world but cushions,’ I replied. ‘Get down, you rascal,’ he ordered. ‘You hold my horse, whilst I search the chaise.’ ‘I’m at your service,’ said I, and I took his horse by the bridle, and as I passed my hand along I felt that there were saddle-bags. Well, that highwayman opened the chaise door and went in to overhaul everything. I had made up my mind what to do. So while he was thus engaged I undid the traces of my ’osses with one hand, holding the highwayman’s ’oss with the other. “Presently he put his head out, and said, ‘There is nothing within—I must search behind.’ ‘Search where you will,’ said I, ‘you’ve plenty o’ time at your disposal.’ And so saying I leaped into his saddle. Then I shouted, ‘Gee up and along, Beauty and Jolly Boy!’ and struck spurs into the flanks of the horse, and away I galloped on his steed with my two chaise horses galloping after me; and we never stayed till we came to Chudleigh.” “And the saddle-bags?” “There was a lot of money in them—but there’s my luck. That fellow had robbed a serge-maker the same night, and this serge-maker came and claimed it all.” “But you were handsomely rewarded?” “He gave me a guinea and the highwayman’s ’oss, and that same ’oss is the old grey mare, gentlemen, as folks ha’ laughed at me for weeping over when she were hanged. Now it is a coorious sarcumstance that so far as I know that there highwayman went scot free to his grave, and the poor innocent grey were hanged.” George Spurle lived to an advanced age, but he was one of those men whose age it is hard to determine: his face was always keen and his eye bright, he had a ruddy cheek, was always closely shaven, and his grey hair cut short. Till he died he drove a conveyance belonging to the inn; he could not be induced to drive the ’bus to the station. To that, “No, sir!” he said; “an old post-boy can’t go to that. There be stations and callin’s, and the station and callin’ of a post-boy is one thing, and the station and callin’ of a ’bus man is another. You can’t pass from the one to the other.”