"Be you from Lunnon, sir?" inquired the old man, eyeing me
beneath his hoary brows as I set down my tankard.
"Yes," said I.
"Well, think o' that now--I've been a-goin' to Lunnon this five
an' forty year--started out twice, I did, but I never got no
furder nor Sevenoaks!"
"How was that?" I inquired.
"Why, theer's 'The White Hart' at Sevenoaks, an' they brews fine
ale at 'The White Hart,' d'ye see, an' one glass begets another."
"And they sent ye back in the carrier's cart!" said the fat man,
smiling broader than ever.
"Ever see the Lord Mayor a-ridin' in 'is goold coach, sir?"
pursued the old man.
"Yes," said I.
"Ever speak to 'im?"
"Why, no."
"Ah well, I once knowed a man as spoke to the Lord Mayor o'
Lunnon's coachman--but 'e's dead, took the smallpox the year
arterwards an' died, 'e did."
At this juncture the door was thrown noisily open, and two
gentlemen entered. The first was a very tall man with black hair
that curled beneath his hat-brim, and so luxuriant a growth of
whisker that it left little of his florid countenance exposed.
The second was more slightly built, with a pale, hairless face,
wherein were set two small, very bright eyes, rather close
together, separated by a high, thin nose with nostrils that worked
and quivered when he spoke, a face whose most potent feature was
the mouth, coarse and red, with a somewhat protuberant under lip,
yet supported by a square, determined chin below--a sensual mouth
with more than a suspicion of cruelty lurking in its full curves,
and the big teeth which gleamed white and serrated when he
laughed. Indeed, the whole aspect of the man filled me with an
instinctive disgust.
They were dressed in that mixture of ultra-fashionable and horsey
styles peculiar to the "Corinthian," or "Buck" of the period, and
there was in their air an overbearing yet lazy insolence towards
all and sundry that greatly annoyed me.
"Fifteen thousand a year, by gad!" exclaimed the taller of the two,
giving a supercilious sniff to the brandy he had just poured out.
"Yes, ha! ha!--and a damnably pretty filly into the bargain!"
"You always were so infernally lucky!" retorted the first.
"Call it rather the reward of virtue," answered his companion
with a laugh that showed his big, white teeth.
"And what of Beverley--poor dey-vil?" inquired the first.