“Oh! Cyclops!” She was relieved.
“Jes’ wot I said. An’ that’s wot this wicious an’ wulgar female of her sect’s gone an’ bit! I’m mortyfied, mum, plumb mortyfied. I’ll drive round now an’ get a dry change, afore the five teeth I’ve got drops out from chill; an’ then I’ll be off till to-morrow—or next day. It’s accordin’. Ugh! You shameless, wile, an’ himproper hanimal, you! I’ll learn ye to respect the Courts o’ the land.”
“So you won’t be here to-night. Very well. Hurry off at once, before you get more rheumatism. But I hope you won’t whip Florence any more. I’m particularly fond of her. You must not be cruel to her, Blake.”
“She’s a female; an’ wot else can ye do with a female? They’re cavorters, from the first one down the line. If I’d a-ben Adam, I’d a-seen wot the A’mighty meant when he called it the tree o’ knowledge—a tree full o’ switches, that’s wot! An’ I’d a-stopped the cavortin’ of the sect right there where it started. Yes, mum; H’eve would a-ben a different ’ooman if Timothy Blake had ’ad her. It would a-ben the makin’ of her,” he added regretfully. “Good-day, mum.”
He did not turn his head as he drove off and, therefore, was not affronted by the sight of his mistress rocking with laughter.
“I wonder if the Judge’s horse has stopped running yet?” she said to herself, and danced up and down on her toes with delight. “I shall always love Florence for that. I think she postponed a declaration.”
Three o’clock did not sound from the stone tower. The toll-man became so interested in relating to a farmer, who was taking a load of live fowls to Trenton, the exciting story of Florence’s achievements—with historical references to the Giffen and Mearely families, and notes on Blake’s pedigree, also Florence’s, besides digressions as to his own age, health, and episodic life-story—that three passed to four without interrupting his train of thought. When the farmer and his squawking equipage passed on, the toll-man went into the tower to fill his pipe from the cut plug in his coat pocket, planning to take a few pleasant puffs before repeating the story all over again to a black-suited, black-whiskered stranger he saw reaching the bridge on the Trenton side. His coat hung under the clock; and, since the clock ticked at ten after four, he rang the hour. When he stepped out again, the stranger had disappeared. He did not observe an abnormal trembling of the tall rushes and sedges by the Roseborough slough, as if a large body were crawling among them.
