The Trotter. 133 



in the middle of the road. His suspicions were now excited. He 

 had a goodish sum of money about him 5 and he never travelled 

 without a pistol stuck in between the cushion and the rail of the gig 

 on the off-side, to be ready to hand at a moment's notice. It did 

 not take him many seconds now to shift into the driving seat, and 

 he was just waking up old Morgan, when the second man sprang 

 at the old horse's head, to which he clung like a bull-dog, shouting 

 all the while to his comrade, who was running up the hill after the 

 gig, to come on. Sam was an excellent pistol-shot : his pistol was 

 levelled straight at the man's head in an instant, and he fired. The 

 man fell like a log of wood -, old Morgan sprang up into the air 

 with a bound as though he was going to fly away with the gig, and 

 then set off at a full gallop, which he kept till he pulled up short at 

 a turnpike-gate, about two miles distant. Just as Sam had fired the 

 pistol, the man behind, who was now within a few yards of the gig, 

 hurled a hedge stake after him, which struck him across the back 

 of the head, and knocked his hat off, fortunately without stunning 

 him. When he got to the gate, Sam, as usual, began to abuse the 

 turnpike man for keeping him waiting, when the old fellow, hap- 

 pening to look down, saw that the horse was standing - - ; th his off 

 fore-hoof in a little pool of blood. The old man called Sam's 

 attention to this, and, on jumping out, he found that the pistol- 

 bullet had passed clean through the root of the old horse's ear. 

 Sam fancied he must have missed the man altogether, who fell 

 through the horse giving so violent a plunge j but this they never 

 could make out, for no body was ever found. It was a lesson to 

 Sam, however, never to trust again to a single pistol ; for, as he 

 truly observed, had he chanced to have shot the old horse dead be 

 would have been left unarmed at the mercy of two ruffians, who 

 would, doubtless, have knocked his brains out before he could have 

 cleared himself from the gig. Sam could never make out how he 

 missed that man, for he always boasted, and with good reason, of 

 his skill as a pistol shot. 



Sam West lived about fifteen miles from us, on his own estate, 

 called Ashby Grange. The estate was a good one, and the old 



