The ostler bent down again, remained silent for a moment, with his eye fixed on the wheel, and then said as he drew himself up,-- "Because this wheel, which may have gone five leagues, cannot possibly go another mile." He jumped out of the tilbury. "What are you saying, my friend?" "I say that it is a miracle you and your horse did not roll into a ditch by the road-side. Just look." The wheel was, in fact, seriously damaged. The blow dealt it by the mail-cart had broken two spokes, and almost carried away the axle-tree. "My good fellow," he said to the ostler, "is there a wheelwright here?" "Of course, sir." "Be good enough to go and fetch him." "He lives close by. Hilloh, Master Bourgaillard." Master Bourgaillard was standing in his doorway: he examined the wheel, and made a face like a surgeon regarding a broken leg. "Can you mend this wheel?" "Yes, sir." "When can I start again?" "To-morrow: there is a good day's work. Are you in a hurry, sir?" "In a great hurry: I must set out again in an hour at the latest." "It is impossible, sir." "I will pay anything you ask." "Impossible." "Well, in two hours?" "It is impossible for to-day; you will not be able to go on till to-morrow." "My business cannot wait till to-morrow. Suppose, instead of mending this wheel, you were to put another on?" "How so?" "You are a wheelwright, and have probably a wheel you can sell me, and then I could set out again directly." "I have no ready-made wheel to suit your gig, for wheels are sold in pairs, and it is not easy to match one." "In that case, sell me a pair of wheels." "All wheels, sir, do not fit all axle-trees." "At any rate try." "It is useless, sir; I have only cart-wheels for sale, for ours is a small place." "Have you a gig I can hire?" The wheelwright had noticed at a glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle; he shrugged his shoulders. "You take such good care of gigs you hire, that if I had one I would not let it to you." "Well, one to sell me?" "I have not one." "What, not a tax-cart? I am not particular, as you see." "This is a small place. I have certainly," the wheelwright added, "an old calèche in my stable, which belongs to a person in the town, and who uses it on the thirty-sixth of every month. I could certainly let it out to you, for it is no concern of mine, but the owner must not see it pass; and besides, it is a calèche, and will want two horses." "I will hire post-horses." "Where are you going to, sir?" "To Arras." "And you wish to arrive to-day?" "Certainly." "By taking post-horses?" "Why not?" "Does it make any difference to you if you reach Arras at four o'clock to-morrow morning?" "Of course it does." "There is one thing to be said about hiring post-horses; have you your passport, sir?" "Yes."