He has breakfast, and at the appointed time the ‘Regulator’ appears at the door. It is a strong, well-built _drag_, painted chocolate colour, bedaubed all over with gilt letters--a Bull’s Head on the doors, a Saracen’s Head on the hind boot, and drawn by four strapping horses; but it wants the neatness of the other. The waiter announces that the ‘Regulator’ is full inside and in front; ‘but,’ he says, ‘you’ll have the _gammon-board_ all to yourself, and your luggage is in the hind boot.’ ‘Gammon-board! Pray, what’s that? Do you not mean the _basket_?’ ‘Oh no, sir,’ says John, smiling, ‘no such a thing on the road now. It’s the hind-dickey, as some call it.’ Before ascending to his place, our friend has cast his eye on the team that is about to convey him to Hartford Bridge, the next stage. It consists of four moderate-sized horses, full of power, and still fuller of condition, but with a fair sprinkling of blood; in short, the eye of a judge would have found something about them not very unlike galloping. ‘All right!’ cries the guard, taking his key-bugle in his hand; and they proceed up the village at a steady pace, to the tune of ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’ and continue at that pace for the first five miles. The old gentleman again congratulates himself, but prematurely, for they are about to enter upon Hartford Bridge Flats, which have the reputation at this time of being the best five miles for a coach in all England. The coachman now ‘springs’ his team and they break into a gallop which does those five miles in twenty-three minutes. Half-way across the Flats they meet the returning coachman of the ‘Comet,’ who has a full view of his quondam passenger--and this is what he saw. He was seated with his back to the horses--his arms extended to each extremity of the guard-irons--his teeth set grim as death--his eyes cast down towards the ground, thinking the less he saw of his danger the better. There was what was called a top-heavy load, perhaps a ton of luggage on the roof, and the horses were of unequal stride; so that the lurches of the ‘Regulator’ were awful. Strange to say, the coach arrives safely at Hartford Bridge, but the antiquated passenger has had enough of it, and exclaims that he will _walk_ into Devonshire. However, he thinks perhaps he will post down, and asks the waiter, ‘What do you charge per mile, posting?’ ‘One and sixpence, sir.’--‘Bless me! just double! Let me see--two hundred miles at two shillings per mile, postboys, turnpikes, etc., £20. This will never do. Have you no coach that does not carry luggage on the top?’--‘Oh yes, sir,’ replies the waiter; ‘we shall have one to-night that is not allowed to carry a bandbox on the roof.’--‘That’s the one for me; pray, what do you call it?’--‘The “Quicksilver” Mail, sir; one of the best out of London.’--‘Guarded and [Sidenote: _THE ‘QUICKSILVER’ MAIL_] [Illustration: THE ‘QUICKSILVER’ MAIL:--‘STOP, COACHMAN, I HAVE LOST MY HAT AND WIG.’]