He may pull up at fifty stations, and not a soul among the Firsts, Seconds, or even Thirds, will offer him a glass of beer, or pipe-full of tobacco, or give him a sixpence at the end of the ride for extra speed or care.

His face is grimy, and greasy, and black.

All his motions are ambiguous and awkward to the casual observer.

He has none of the sedate and conscious dignity of his predecessor on the old stage-coach box.

He handles no whip, like him, with easy grace.