The postilion muttered “curses not loud, but deep.” Deep or loud, no purpose would they have answered; the waggoner’s temper was proof against curse in or out of the English language; and from their snail’s pace neither _Dickens_, nor devil, nor any postilion in England could make him put his horses. Lord Colambre jumped out of the chaise, and, walking beside him, began to talk to him; and spoke of his horses, their bells, their trappings; the beauty and strength of the thill-horse--the value of the whole team, which his lordship happening to guess right within ten pounds, and showing, moreover, some skill about road-making and waggon-wheels, and being fortunately of the waggoner’s own opinion in the great question about conical and cylindrical rims, he was pleased with the young chap of a gentleman; and, in spite of the chuffiness of his appearance and churlishness of his speech, this waggoner’s bosom being “made of penetrable stuff,” he determined to let the gentleman pass. Accordingly, when half way up the hill, and the head of the fore-horse came near an open gate, the waggoner, without saying one word or turning his head, touched the horse with his long whip--and the horse turned in at the gate, and then came, “Dobbin!--Jeho!” and strange calls and sounds, which all the other horses of the team obeyed; and the waggon turned into the farm-yard. “Now, master! while I turn, you may pass.” The covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the waggon turned in; and as the sacking was drawn back, some of the packages were disturbed--a cheese was just rolling off on the side next Lord Colambre; he stopped it from falling: the direction caught his quick eye--“To Ralph Reynolds, Esq.”--“_Toddrington_” scratched out; “Red Lion Square, London,” written in another hand below. “Now I have found him! And surely I know that hand!” said Lord Colambre to himself, looking more closely at the direction. The original direction was certainly in a hand-writing well known to him--it was Lady Dashfort’s. “That there cheese, that you’re looking at so cur’ously,” said the waggoner, “has been a great traveller; for it came all the way down from Lon’on, and now its going all the way up again back, on account of not finding the gentleman at home; and the man that booked it told me as how it came from foreign parts.” Lord Colambre took down the direction, tossed the honest waggoner a guinea, wished him good night, passed, and went on. As soon as he could, he turned into the London road--at the first town, got a place in the mail--reached London--saw his father--went directly to his friend, Count O’Halloran, who was delighted when he beheld the packet. Lord Colambre was extremely eager to go immediately to old Reynolds, fatigued as he was; for he had travelled night and day, and had scarcely allowed himself, mind or body, one moment’s repose.