Ralph Darley was quick at observation, and took in quickly the fact that all the men were armed, and looked shabbier than their leader, though not so stout; for he was rubicund and portly, where he ought not to have been, for activity, though in a barrel a tubby space does indicate strength. Neither were the noses of the other men so red as their leader’s, albeit they were a villainous-looking lot.
“Not beggars, but soldiers,” thought Ralph; “and they’ve been in the wars.”
He was quite right, but he did not stop to think that there had been no wars for some years. Still, as aforesaid, he was right, but the war the party had been in was with poverty.
“What in the world do they want in this out-of-the-way place—on the road to nowhere?” thought Ralph. “If they’re not beggars, they have lost their way.”
He pushed back the hilt of his sword, and drew up one leg, covered with its high, buff-leather boot, beneath him, holding it as he waited for the party to come slowly up; and as they did, they halted where he sat, at the side of the road, and the leader, puffing and panting, took off his rusty morion with his left hand, and wiped his pink, bald head, covered with drops of perspiration, with his right, as he rolled his eyes at the lad.
“Hallo, young springald!” he cried, in a blustering manner. “Why don’t you jump up and salute your officer?”
“Because I can’t see him,” cried the lad sharply.
“What? And you carry a toasting-iron, like a rat’s tail, by your side. Here, who made this cursed road, where it ought to have been a ladder?”
“I don’t know,” said Ralph angrily. “Who are you? What do you want? This road does not lead anywhere.”
“That’s a lie, my young cock-a-hoop; if it did not lead somewhere, it would not have been made.”