Mr Hawkins sighed. “It’s a rare chance,” he said wistfully. “Ah, what did I tell you? Bristol Mail, that is.”
The Mail had swept round the bend, accompanied by two outriders. The horses, nearing the end of the stage, were sweating, and one of the leaders showed signs of lameness,
A wagon, going at a snail’s pace along the white road, was theonly other thing that relieved the monotony during the next quarter of an hour. Mr Hawkins remarked that he knew a cove who got a tidy living prigging the goods off tumblers, but he himself despised so debased a calling.
Sir Roland yawned. “We’ve seen one stage, one mail, man riding a roan cob, and a wagon. I call it devilish dull, pel. Poor sport! Heron, did you think to bring a pack of cards?”
“No,” answered Captain Heron sleepily.
“No, no more did I,” said Sir Roland, and relapsed into silence.
Presently Mr Hawkins put his hand to his ear. “Ah,” he said deeply, “that sounds more like it! You want to get your masks on, gen’lemen. There’s a chaise coming.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Sir Roland gloomily, but he put his mask on and got into the saddle.
The Viscount fixed his own mask, and once more crushed the hat on to his head. “Lord, Pom, if you could see yourself!” he said.
Sir Roland, who was engaged in blowing the curtain of his mask away from his mouth, paused to say: “I can see you, Pel. That’s enough. More than enough.”