CHAPTER IX.
SALTASH FERRY.
Apparently the hackney coachman was accustomed to difficulties with the toll-gate; for he rested on the box in profoundest slumber, recumbent, with his chin sunk on his chest; and only woke up--with a start which shook the vehicle--when a black hearse with plumes waving went rattling by us and back towards Plymouth.
A minute later Mr.Jope reappeared at the coach door, perspiring copiously, but triumphant.
"Oh, it's been heavinly!" he announced.

"Why, hallo! Where's his Reverence ?" "He couldn't wait, sir.

He--he preferred to walk." "Eh?
I didn't see 'en pass the toll-bar.

That's a pity, too; for I wanted to take his opinion.

Oh, my son, it's been heavinly! First of all I tried argyment and called the toll-man a son of a bitch; and then he fetched up a constable, and, as luck would have it, Nan--she's in the second coach--knew all about _him_; leastways, she talked as if she did.