“Did ye give it him strong?” (indicating the person he referred to by an expressive jerk of his thumb towards the library door). “I heard ye blowing of him up—but did ye give it him reg'lar strong?”
“I certainly told Mr. Vernor my opinion with tolerable plainness,” replied I, smiling at the intense delight which was visible in every line of the strange old face beside me.
“No! Did ye?—did ye? That was right,” was the rejoinder. “Lor! how I wish I'd a been there to see; but I heard ye though—I heard ye a giving it to him,” and again he relapsed into a paroxysm of delight.
“Peter,” said I, “I want to have a little private conversation with you—how is that to be managed? Is there any place near where you could meet me?” “You come here from Hillingford, didn't ye, sir?” I nodded assent. He continued:—“Did you notice a hand-post which stands where four roads meet, about a mile and a half from here?”
“I saw it,” returned I, “and even tried to read what was painted on it, but of course, after the manner of all country direction posts, it was totally illegible.”
“Well, when you get there, take the road to the left, and ride on till ye see an ale-house on the right-hand side, and stay there till I come to ye.”
“I will,” replied I, “but don't keep me waiting longer than you can help—there's a good man.”
An understanding grin was his only answer; and mounting my unpleasant horse (who seemed much more willing to proceed quietly when his head was turned in a homeward direction), I rode slowly through the park, my state of mind affording a practical illustration, that Quintus Horatius Flaccus was about right in his conjecture that Care sometimes indulged herself with a little equestrian exercise on a pillion.{1}
1 “Post equitem sedet atra cura.”