"I'd chance a mile more than that for such stakes, where there's no knockin' about or head-punchin' business, Griffiths. I've not got what they call animal courage, which means I don't like being hurt. Some people do, I suppose, and they have animal courage. Now, let's settle where I'm to write to you, and all the rest of the business."
Mr. Effingham spoke thus cheerily, and seemed thoroughly determined on his undertaking and confident of his success, as he sat, late at night, in a warm brilliantly-lit tavern-parlour, with the odours of tobacco and hot spirituous drinks fragrant to him floating pleasantly about. He took quite another view of the subject when he turned out between five and six the next morning into a bald blank street, swept by torrents of rain, in which no one was visible but the policeman and the few vagrants huddling round the early-breakfast stall at the corner. Mr. Effingham wrapped himself up as best he might in his fifteen-shilling pea-jacket, and under cover of a big gingham umbrella, borrowed from his landlady, made the best fight he could against the wind and the rain, which, however, had so far the best of it that he was tolerably damp by the time he reached the Paddington station.
He took his ticket, and seated himself on the shelf in one of those wooden boxes which benevolent railway directors set aside for the conveyance of parliamentarians. His companions were two navvies, who had not slept off the effects of last night's drunkenness, and whose language made Mr. Effingham--albeit not unused to listening to "tall talk"--shrink with disgust; an old woman with steaming black garments, and an umbrella which would not stand up in any corner and would not lie under the seat, and got itself called most opprobrious names for its persistence in leaning against the nearest navvy; and a young woman with a swollen face tied up in a check cotton handkerchief. Mr. Effingham made an effort to let the very small window on his side down, but the young woman with the toothache had it up in an instant; while the aperture on the other side was constantly stuffed with the body of one or other of the drunken navvies, who fought for the privilege of leaning half out of the carriage, and running the chance of being knocked to pieces against arches and tunnel-walls. So the navvies fought and swore, and the old woman sniffed and took little snatches of sleep, waking with a prolonged snort and start; and the young woman moaned and rubbed her face, until Mr. Effingham was nearly mad. Circumstances were almost too much for him; he grew first desponding, and then desperate. He wished he had never started on his journey; he would get out at the next station at which the train stopped (and as the parliamentary duly stopped at every station, he would not have had to wait long); he would go back to London. No, he would not do that; he had boasted about his intention to Griffiths, and would lose all authority over that satellite if he did not show at least the semblance of a fulfilment of his purpose. He would get out at the next station, and wait at a public-house in the village until the next day, and then go back and tell Griffiths he had seen Sir Charles Mitford, and had found it impossible to get any money out of him. And then, just as the whistle shrieked out and the engine reduced its particularly slow pace to a slower still, preparatory to pulling up, Mr. Effingham's hands strayed into his waistcoat-pocket, where he found only a half-sovereign and a few shillings remaining--the extent of his earthly possessions. That decided him; he would go on, come what might! Such a state of impecuniosity nerved him to anything; and--the absence of policemen in rural districts still pleasantly remembered--he determined upon pursuing his original idea and of continuing his journey.
The next day Sir Charles Mitford, who had been compelled to devote the morning to dry details of business connected with his estate--details to which he listened conscientiously, over which he shook his head visibly, and which he did not in the least understand--had got rid of the man of business from the library about noon, and was just thinking he would go and see what Mrs. Hammond was doing, when Banks entered, and closing the door after him in a secret and mysterious manner, announced "That party, sir."
"What 'party,' Banks?"
"The party that called in Heaton Place, Sir Charles, and ast to see you, and you wouldn't see at first, but did afterwards, Sir Charles."
"I don't know yet whom you mean, Banks."
"The naval party, Sir Charles; though lookin' more like after the coats and humbrellas in the 'all. The naval party as served with you on board some ship, Sir Charles."
"Oh," said Mitford hurriedly, "I recollect now; one of--one of my sailors from my old yacht--yes, yes, of course. You can show him into my own room, Banks. I'll go up there at once."
"'Sailor,'" said Mr. Banks to himself as he walked down the passage, "'from my hold yacht,' did he say? Why, if what they say at the Club is right, the honly naval concern which he knew of before comin' in for the title was the Fleet Pris'n! This is a queer start about this feller, this is. I wonder why he wants to see Mitford, and why Mitford can't refuse hisself to him?--This way, young man." And he beckoned haughtily to Mr. Effingham, and preceded him to his master's room. Sir Charles had already arrived there, and was seated in his large armchair when the visitor was shown in.