“Puffect!” declared Horace, with enthusiasm. “A born actor couldn’t do it better, especially when you rolls your eyes up like that. I see it was blowing a bit fresh when I come along just now, so there’ll be a nice little ground-swell off the ’arbour-mouth to-morrow. ’Ave you arranged to ’ave colic to-morrow, like I told you?”
“All fixed up; and I’ve got some one else to look after the ferry for the day, and I’ve borrowed a small boat, like what you said. And I shall be waiting where you told me all the morning.”
“That’s the idea!” approved Horace. “And now we’ll just go and see if Peter Lock remembers all he’s got to say, and then we’ll see if the clock in the ‘Jolly Sailors’ keeps good time.”
Mr. Horace Dobb was patrolling the platform of Shorehaven railway-station next morning when the express from London came to a standstill there.
Of the few passengers that thankfully alighted, the majority were sailormen. Several women and children made up a goodly share of the rest of the number. Of the half-dozen residue, five were gentlemen known to Mr. Dobb by sight or personally. The sixth was a complete stranger, and Mr. Dobb, with a pious expression of gratitude for this simplification of his task of identifying Mrs. Jackson’s expected visitor, at once approached him.
“Are you going straight back to the Town ’All, Mr. Binson?” asked Horace, innocently.
“I’m afraid you’re making an error,” was the reply. “My name is not Binson.”
“Mean to tell me you’re not Mr. Binson, our town-clerk of Shore’aven ’ere?” demanded Mr. Dobb, incredulously.
“No, I am not. I am a complete stranger to this town.”
“Well, well,” marvelled Mr. Dobb, “you are the exact image of Mr. Binson, that’s all I can say.”