“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”
This was repeated over and over again, and seemed as we sat there under our basket canopy to come from some one driving behind us; but the jolting of the cart and the grinding of wheels and the horse’s trampling drowned the sound of the following vehicle, and there it went on:
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”
But the singer pronounced it Do-ho-ver; and then it went on over and over again.
“Yes,” said Ike, as if he had been talking about something; “them padroles put a stop to that game.”
“What game?” I said.
“Highwaymen’s. This used to be one of their fav’rite spots, from here away to Hounslow Heath. There was plenty of ’em in the old days, with their spanking horses and their pistols, and their ‘stand and deliver’ to the coach passengers. Now you couldn’t find a highwayman for love or money, even if you wanted him to stuff and putt in a glass case.”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”
“I wish you’d stopped there,” said Ike, in a grumbling voice. “Ah, those used to be days. That’s where Dick Turpin used to go, you know—Hounslow Heath.”
“But there are none now?” I said, with some little feeling of trepidation.