“Not them little pops all over wedge?” asked Mr Hawkins, frowning.
“Lord, no! Horse pistols like your own. You’d best leave the shooting to me, Pom. No knowing what will happen if you let that barker off.”
“That gun,” said Mr Hawkins, offended, “belonged to Gentleman Joe, him as went to the Nubbing Cheat a twelve-month back. Ah, and a rare buzz he was!”
“Fellow who robbed the French Mail about a year ago?” inquired the Viscount. “Hanged him, didn’t they?”
“That’s what I said,” replied Mr Hawkins.
“Well, I don’t care for his taste in pistols,” said the Viscount, handing the weapon over to Sir Roland. “Let’s be going.”
They trooped down the wooden stairs again, and out into the yard, where a couple of seedy-looking men were walking the horses up and down. These Mr Hawkins sent about their business. The Viscount tossed them a couple of silver pieces, and went to see that his pistols were still safe in the saddle holsters. Mr Hawkins told him he need not be anxious. “Couple o’ my own lads, they are,” he said, hoisting himself on to the back of a big brown gelding.
The Viscount swung lightly into the saddle, glancing over the brown horse’s points. “Where did you steal that nag?” he asked.
Mr Hawkins grinned, and laid a finger to the side of his nose.
Sir Roland, whose horse, apparently having as poor an opinion of the hostelry as his master, was sidling and fidgeting in a fret to be off, ranged alongside the Viscount and said: “Pel, we can’t ride down the high road in these clothes! Damme, I won’t do it!”