"Tall or short? Dark or fair? Will she kiss you--next time--will she,
will she? Will she even be glad to see you again--will she, now will
she?"
Whereupon Barnabas must needs become profoundly thoughtful all at
once.
"Now--I wonder?" said he to himself.
CHAPTER XXV
OF THE COACHMAN'S STORY
Long before the lights of the "White Lion" had vanished behind them,
the guard blows a sudden fanfare on the horn, such a blast as goes
echoing merrily far and wide, and brings folk running to open doors
and lighted windows to catch a glimpse of the London Mail ere it
vanishes into the night; and so, almost while the cheery notes ring
upon the air, Tenterden is behind them, and they are bowling along
the highway into the open country beyond. A wonderful country this,
familiar and yet wholly new; a nightmare world where ghosts and
goblins flit under a dying moon; where hedge and tree become monsters
crouched to spring, or lift knotted arms to smite; while in the
gloom of woods beyond, unimagined horrors lurk.
But, bless you, Mottle-face, having viewed it all under the slant of
his hat-brim, merely settles his mottled chin deeper in his shawls,
flicks the off ear of the near leader with a delicate turn of the
wrists, and turning his owl-like eye upon Barnabas, remarks that
"It's a werry fine night!" But hereupon the fussy gentleman, leaning
over, taps Mottle-face upon the shoulder.
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