I had now an opportunity of watching the proceedings of one of our pursuers, at any rate--and surely this was something gained.
"Fine morning, sir," I said politely.
"Yes," he replied in the gruffest of monosyllables.
I was not offended: I could make allowance for the feelings of a man who had been locked up by his own prisoner.
"Very fine morning, indeed," I repeated, soothingly and cheerfully.
The runner only grunted this time.

Well, well! we all have our little infirmities.

I don't think the worse of the man now, for having been rude to me, that morning, on the top of the Shrewsbury coach.
The next passenger who got up and placed himself by my side was a florid, excitable, confused-looking gentleman, excessively talkative and familiar.

He was followed by a sulky agricultural youth in top-boots--and then, the complement of passengers on our seat behind the coachman was complete.
"Heard the news, sir ?" said the florid man, turning to me.
"Not that I am aware of," I answered.
"It's the most tremendous thing that has happened these fifty years," said the florid man.

"A gang of coiners, sir, discovered at Barkingham--in a house they used to call the Grange.