“Anything new stirring, Boyd?” asked Sir Arthur, trying not to show that he was waiting for the pleasure of his coachman.
“No, sir; all dull as ditch-water.”
“We want rain, I fancy,—don't we?”
“We 'd not be worse for a little, sir. The after-grass, at least, would benefit by it.”
“Why don't you pave this town better, Boyd? I 'm certain it was these rascally stones twisted Blenheim's shoe.”
“Our corporation will do nothing, sir,—nothing,” said the other, in a whisper.
“Who is that fellow with the large whiskers, yonder,—on the steps of the hotel? He looks as if he owned the town.”
“A foreigner, Sir Arthur; a Frenchman or a German, I believe. He came over this morning to ask if we knew the address of Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“Count Caffarelli,” muttered Sir Arthur to himself; “what a chance that I should see him! How did he come?”
“Posted, sir; slept at Cookstown last night, and came here to breakfast.”