text:  The mail is just ready to start; we pay our fare and after seeing our luggage carefully deposited in the recesses of the boot we mount beside the red-faced much-becoated individual who is flickering his whip in idle listlessness on the box; the guard gives a triumphal shout on his short tin horn the flickering of the whip ceases the horses snort and paw and finally in a tempest of sound and a whirlwind of dust we career onward from the Saracen's head and watch the stepping of the stately team with pride and exultation--a hundred and forty miles before us and thirteen hours on the road