It appeared that as Mr. Stephen Marchant, of Turnham-green, was riding quietly homewards from town, between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, his horse got a pebble in one of his feet, which made him go lame, and Mr. Marchant alighted to extract it. Whilst he was busied in this operation, who should come up offering assistance but John Saunders, with a large white band-box in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. Mr. Marchant accepted his help with many thanks; and John Saunders, setting down his band-box in the road, began grubbing away at the unlucky pebble with the spike of his umbrella, whilst Mr. Marchant held up the foot of the horse; and he grubbed and grubbed at it, so earnestly, that at last the spike of the umbrella "broke off as short as a carrot." Well, what was to be done now? Why Mr. Marchant, thinking he could knock out the pebble with a large stone, asked John Saunders to hold the horse whilst he looked for one; and John Saunders readily undertook to do so; but whilst Mr. Marchant was groping about, in the dark, for the stone, he saw, to his utter astonishment, John Saunders on the back of the horse, scampering away towards Kensington as if the deuce was in him--his umbrella tucked close under his arm, and his great white band-box banging about from side to side _like mad_, as he said. Mr. Marchant stood aghast for a moment, and then followed, crying "Stop thief! Stop thief!" with all his might. Every horseman on the road, the horse-patrol and many foot passengers, hearing this cry, scampered after John Saunders with might and main, and the hue and cry sounded far and wide-- "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. --Tramp! tramp! away he went, through merry Kensington, down Phillimore Place, dashing by Holland House, and so away for Hammersmith, with a continually increasing rabble rout at his heels. But John Saunders gained upon them at every bound of his steed; he shot through Hammersmith-gate with the rapidity of lightning, and wheeling round to the left, down Fulham-lane, he got so far a-head of his pursuers, that they could see nothing but his great white band-box--as it went bobbing and swinging from side to side at his back. Down Fulham-lane, however, they followed him, slap bang!--and on they went, hallooing and hooting, through mud and through mire, through fog and moonshine, till at last he took a desperate leap over the fence of a ploughed field; and when the foremost of his pursuers came up to the gap, even the bobbing of his band-box was invisible!--In _plain_ terms, he fairly "tipped 'em the double"--he was vanished; and Mr. Marchant having thus lost his horse, was under the annoying necessity of--getting home how he could.