Nor of the meal they ate
at the "Chequers" Inn at Tonbridge, and how they drank (at the
Bo'sun's somewhat diffident suggestion) a health "to his Honor the
Cap'n, and the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four."
And thus Barnabas, clad in purple and fine linen and driving his own
blood horses, talked and laughed with a one-legged mariner, and
sought the companionship of his own valet; which irregularity must
be excused by his youth and inexperience, and the lamentable fact
that, despite his purple and fine linen, he was, as yet, only a man,
alas!
Thus, then, as evening fell, behold them spinning along that winding
road where stood a certain ancient finger-post pointing the wayfarer:
TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST
At sight of which weather-worn piece of timber. Barnabas must needs
smile, though very tenderly, and thereafter fall a-sighing. But all
at once he checked his sighs to stare in amazement, for there,
demurely seated beneath the finger-post, and completely engrossed in
her needlework, was a small, lonely figure, at sight of which
Barnabas pulled up the bays in mid-career.
"Why--Duchess!" he exclaimed, and, giving Peterby the reins, stepped
out of the phaeton.
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