“Dear boy—taken the words out of my mouth! What the devil—?” said Mr. Babbacombe.
“Confound you, what’s brought you here?” demanded the Captain.
“Just reconnoitering, dear boy!” said Mr. Babbacombe, late of the 10th Hussars, with an airy wave of the quizzing-glass. “No good flying into a miff, Jack! Dash it, no business to write me mysterious letters if you don’t mean me to come and see what kind of a lark you’re kicking up!”
“Damn you!” John said, reaching up to grip his hand. “I might have known it indeed, you inquisitive fribble! Did you bring my gear with you?”
Mr. Babbacombe removed his driving-coat from the seat beside him, disclosing a bulky package. Indicating this, with every evidence of revulsion, he said: “Take it! If there had been room for your portmanteaux as well as my own, dashed if I wouldn’t have brought ’em! You great gudgeon, we had to smash the locks! I hadn’t the keys!”
“Oh, that’s of no consequence!” said John, picking up the package, and tucking it under his arm. “But what’s this about your portmanteaux? I don’t see them!”
“No, no, I left ’em at the inn!”
“What inn?”
“Little place down the road. I don’t remember what it’s called, but you must know it! It’s only a mile away, dash it!”
“You can’t stay at the Blue Boar!” John exclaimed.