Adventure stories; England -- Fiction; Romanies -- Fiction
Before I quitted the inn, he had
disappeared from the road, going no one knew where.
The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked upon the
road, but there was an esprit de corps amongst the coachmen, and those
who stood by did not like to see their brother chastised in such
tremendous fashion. "I never saw such a fight before," said one. "Fight!
why, I don't call it a fight at all; this chap here ha'n't got a scratch,
whereas Tom is cut to pieces; it is all along of that guard of his; if
Tom could have got within his guard he would have soon served the old
chap out." "So he would," said another, "it was all owing to that guard.
However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this afternoon,
I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve him out." "I will
fight him now for a guinea," said the other coachman, half taking off his
coat; observing, however, that the elderly individual made a motion
towards him, he hitched it upon his shoulder again, and added, "that is,
if he had not been fighting already, but as it is, I am above taking an
advantage, especially of such a poor old creature as that." And when he
had said this, he looked around him, and there was a feeble titter of
approbation from two or three of the craven crew, who were in the habit
of currying favour with the coachmen. The elderly individual looked for
a moment at these last, and then said, "To such fellows as you I have
nothing to say;" then turning to the coachmen, "and as for you," he said,
"ye cowardly bullies, I have but one word, which is, that your reign upon
the roads is nearly over, and that a time is coming when ye will no
longer be wanted or employed in your present capacity, when ye will
either have to drive dung-carts, assist as ostlers at village ale-houses,
or rot in the workhouse." Then putting on his coat and hat, and taking
up his bundle, not forgetting his meerschaum, and the rest of his smoking
apparatus, he departed on his way. Filled with curiosity, I followed
him.
"I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your hands in the
way you have done," said I, as I walked with this individual in the
direction in which he was bound.
"I will tell you how I became able to do so," said the elderly
individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along. "My
father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very riotous
neighbourhood in the outskirts of London. Wishing to give me something
of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two or three streets distant
from where we lived, and there, being rather a puny boy, I suffered much
persecution from my schoolfellows, who were a very blackguard set. One
day, as I was running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old
Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the arm--"
"Dear me," said I, "has it ever been your luck to be acquainted with
Sergeant Broughton?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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