"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet: here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."
Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so rich as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----. He had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway, "I must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first sleep."
Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto; or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.
The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the chaise-door, and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she said, she talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out where she wanted to be carried to."
"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and don't let her keep us here all night."
"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor acquaintance neither."
"She belongs to nobody--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she says."