My uncle could make nothing of it.
'"Now, are you going to get in?" said the person who had
addressed my uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with
a wig on his head and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had
a lantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in the other,
which he was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. "ARE you
going to get in, Jack Martin?" said the guard, holding the lantern
to my uncle's face.
'"Hollo!" said my uncle, falling back a step or two. "That's familiar!"
'"It's so on the way-bill," said the guard.
'"Isn't there a 'Mister' before it?" said my uncle. For he felt,
gentlemen, that for a guard he didn't know, to call him Jack
Martin, was a liberty which the Post Office wouldn't have
sanctioned if they had known it.
'"No, there is not," rejoined the guard coolly.
'"Is the fare paid?" inquired my uncle.
'"Of course it is," rejoined the guard.
'"it is, is it?" said my uncle. "Then here goes! Which coach?"
'"This," said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh
and London mail, which had the steps down and the door open.
"Stop! Here are the other passengers. Let them get in first.
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