“I am the Earl of Rochester,” said he, “and my address is Carlton House Terrace, London. I have no cards on me.”
Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had recognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George.
“I beg your pardon,” said the other, “but the fact is that my land is over-run with people from Sandbourne—sorry.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” replied the Earl of Rochester. “I sha’n’t do any damage. Good day.” They parted and he pursued his way.
A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beery face, and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshine under a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him.
He hailed Jones as “Guvernor” and requested a match.
Jones supplied the match, and they fell into conversation.
“Northbourne,” said the tramp. “I’m goin’ that way meself. I’ll shew you the quickest way when I’ve had a suck at me pipe.”
Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. The trespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the Landlord had not entirely removed the sense of outrage.
“Aren’t you afraid of being held up for trespass?” asked he.