"John," said he at last, "I must trouble you to change coats with me."
Peterby slipped off the garment in question, and aided Barnabas to
put it on.
"Now, your fur cap, John."
"Sir," said Peterby all anxiety in a moment, "you are never thinking
of going out, tonight--it would be madness!"
"Then mad am I. Your cap, John."
"But--if you are arrested--"
"He will be a strong man who stays me tonight, John. Give me your cap."
So Peterby brought the fur cap and, putting it on, Barnabas pulled
it low down over his brows and turned to the door. But there Peterby
stayed him.
"Sir," he pleaded, "let me go for you."
"No," said Barnabas, shaking his head.
"Then let me go with you,"
"Impossible, John."
"Why?"
"Because," answered Barnabas, grim-lipped, "tonight I go to ride
another race, a very long, hard race, and oh, John Peterby--my
faithful John, if you never prayed before--pray now, that I may win!"
"Sir," said Peterby, "I will!"
Then Barnabas caught his hand, wrung it, and striding from the room,
hurried away down the dark and narrow stair.
CHAPTER LXIX
HOW BARNABAS LED A HUE AND CRY
The shadows were creeping down on Giles's Rents, hiding its grime,
its misery and squalor, what time Barnabas stepped out into the court,
and, turning his back upon the shadowy River, strode along,
watchful-eyed, toward that dark corner where the Bow Street Runners
still lounged, smoking their pipes and talking together in their
rumbling tones.
Pages:
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745