In a few moments the vehicle came into sight round a bend in the road, some way off. It was a great lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, and piled high with baggage. Beside the coachman sat an armed guard, and all over the roof such passengers who could only afford to pay half their fare perched and clung precariously.
“Don’t touch stage rablers myself,” remarked Mr Hawkins, watching the coach lurch and sway over the bumps in the road. “Nothing to be had but a rum fam or two, or a thin truss.”
The coach laboured ponderously on, and was presently lost to sight. The noise of the plodding hooves was borne back in the still air for long after it had gone, growing fainter and fainter until at last it died.
A solitary horseman bearing westwards passed next. Mr. Hawkins sniffed at him, and shook his head. “Small game,” he said scornfully.
Silence, except for the trill of a lark somewhere overhead, again fell over the Heath. Captain Heron dozed peacefully; the Viscount took snuff. The sound of a coach travelling fast broke the stillness after perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The Viscount nudged Captain Heron sharply, and picked up his mask. Mr Hawkins cocked his head on one side, listening “Six horses there,” he pronounced. “Hear ’em?”
The Viscount had risen, and put his mare’s bridle over her head. He paused. “Six?”
“Ay, outriders, I dessay. Might be the Mail.” He looked histhree companions over. “Four on us—what do you say, my bullies?”
“Good God, no!” replied the Viscount. “Can’t rob the Mail!”
Mr Hawkins sighed. “It’s a rare chance,” he said wistfully. “Ah, what did I tell you? Bristol Mail, that is.”
The Mail had swept round the bend, accompanied by two outriders. The horses, nearing the end of the stage, were sweating, and one of the leaders showed signs of lameness,
A wagon, going at a snail’s pace along the white road, was theonly other thing that relieved the monotony during the next quarter of an hour. Mr Hawkins remarked that he knew a cove who got a tidy living prigging the goods off tumblers, but he himself despised so debased a calling.
Sir Roland yawned. “We’ve seen one stage, one mail, man riding a roan cob, and a wagon. I call it devilish dull, pel. Poor sport! Heron, did you think to bring a pack of cards?”
“No,” answered Captain Heron sleepily.
“No, no more did I,” said Sir Roland, and relapsed into silence.
Presently Mr Hawkins put his hand to his ear. “Ah,” he said deeply, “that sounds more like it! You want to get your masks on, gen’lemen. There’s a chaise coming.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Sir Roland gloomily, but he put his mask on and got into the saddle.
The Viscount fixed his own mask, and once more crushed the hat on to his head. “Lord, Pom, if you could see yourself!” he said.
Sir Roland, who was engaged in blowing the curtain of his mask away from his mouth, paused to say: “I can see you, Pel. That’s enough. More than enough.”
Mr Hawkins mounted the brown gelding. “Now, my bullies all, take it easy. We ride down on ’em, see? You wants to be careful how you looses off them pops. I’m a peaceable cove, and we don’t want no killing.” He nodded at the Viscount. “You’re handy with your pop; you and me’ll do the shooting, and mind it’s over their nobs!”
The Viscount drew one of his pistols from the holster. “Wonder how the mare will take it?” he said cheerfully.” Steady, Firefly! Steady, lass!”
A post-chaise drawn by four trotting horses came round the bend. Mr Hawkins snatched at the Viscount’s bridle. “Easy, easy!” he begged. “Give ’em time to come alongside! No sense in letting ’em see us yet. You wait on me.”
The post-chaise came on. “Nice pair of wheelers,” commented Sir Roland. “Good holders.”
“Capting, you’ll cover them postilions, see?” ordered Mr Hawkins.
“If we don’t move soon, there’ll be no postilions to cover!” snapped the Viscount. “Come on, man!”
The post-chaise was almost abreast of them. Mr Hawkins released the Viscount’s bridle. “At ’em, then!” he said, and drove his heels into his horse.
“Yoiks! Forrard away!” halloed Sir Roland, and thundered down the slope, waving his pistol.
“Pom, don’t you let that barker off!” shouted the Viscount, abreast of him, and levelling his own slenderer weapon.
Rising in his stirrups, he pulled the trigger, and saw one of the postilions duck as the shot whistled over his head. The mare shied violently and tried to bolt. He held her head on her course, and came down like a thunderbolt across the road. “Stand and deliver!—steady, lass!”
The postilions had dragged their frightened horses to a standstill. Captain Heron pressed up closer, covering them with his pistol. Sir Roland, a connoisseur of horse-flesh, had allowed his attention to be diverted by the two wheelers, and was studying them closely.
The Viscount and Mr Hawkins had ridden up to the chaise. The window was let down with a bang, and an old gentleman with a red face pushed his head and shoulders out, and extending his arm fired a small pistol at the Viscount. “Dastardly rogues! Cut-throat robbers! Drive on, you cowardly rascals!” he spluttered.
The shot sang past the Viscount’s ear; the mare reared up in alarm, and was steadied again. “Hi, mind what you’re about, sir!” said his lordship indignantly. “You devilish near got me in the head!”
Mr Hawkins on the other side of the chaise, thrust his pistol into the old gentleman’s face. “Drop your pops!” he growled. “And step out, d’you see? Come on, out with you!” He let the reins fall on his horse’s neck, and leaned sideways in the saddle, and wrenched open the door of the chaise. “A rare gager, you are! Hand over your truss! Ah, and that pretty lobb o’ yourn!”
The Viscount said quickly: “Draw off, you fool! Wrong man!”
“Lordy, he’s good enough for me!” replied Mr Hawkins, wresting a snuff-box from the old gentleman’s grasp. “A nice little lobb, this! Come on now, where’s your truss?”
“I’ll have the Watch on you!” raved his victim. “Damnable! Broad daylight! Take that, you thief!” With which he dashed his hat at Mr Hawkins’s pistol, and diving back into the coach seized a long ebony cane.
“Lord, he’ll have an apoplexy,” said the Viscount, and rode round the chaise to Mr Hawkins’s side. “Give me that snuffbox,” he ordered briefly. “Edward! Here, Edward! Take the fool away! We’ve got the wrong man.” He dodged a blow aimed at his head with the ebony cane, tossed the snuff-box into the chaise, and reined back. “Let ’em go, Pom!” he called.
Sir Roland came round to him. “Wrong man, is it? Tell you what, Pel—as nice a pair of wheelers as I’ve seen. Just what I’ve been looking for. Think he’d sell?”
The old gentleman, still perched on the step of the chaise, shook his fist at them. “Murderous dogs!” he raved. “You’ll find I’m a match for you, you rogues! Don’t like the look of this little cane of mine, eh? I’ll break the head of the first man to come a step nearer! Robbers and cowards! White-livered scoundrels! Drive on, you damned shivering fools! Ride ’em down!”
Captain Heron, in charge of the baffled Mr Hawkins, said in a voice that shook with suppressed mirth: “For God’s sake come away! He’ll burst a blood-vessel at this rate.”
“Wait a bit,” said Sir Roland. He swept off his abominable beaver, a,nd bowed over his horse’s withers. “Haven’t the honour of knowing your name, sir, but you’ve a very pretty pair of wheelers there. Looking for just such a pair.”
The old gentleman gave a scream of rage. “Insolence! Steal my horses, would you? Postilion! I command you, drive on!”
“No, no! Assure you nothing of the sort!” protested Sir Roland.
Captain Heron bore down upon him, and seizing his bridle, dragged him away. “Come away,” he said, “you’ll ruin us all, you young madman!”
Sir Roland allowed himself to be led off. “A pity,” he said, shaking his head. “Great pity. Never saw such a queer-tempered fellow.”
The Viscount, who was speaking a few pithy words to Mr Hawkins, turned his head. “How the devil should he know you wanted to buy his horses? Besides, we haven’t time to buy horses. We’d better get back to our ambush. Mare stood the firing pretty well, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
Captain Heron watched the chaise rolling away up the road. “He’ll lay information in Hounslow, Pelham, you mark my words.”
“Let him,” said the Viscount. “He won’t get the Watch out against us. Why, we didn’t take a thing!”
“Not a thing,” muttered Mr Hawkins sulkily. “And him with his strong-box under the seat! Dang me if ever I
