What a morning, what sunshine, what a breeze!
"Does one good, Cutler. Blows the cobwebs away! Better than all your Doctor's stuffs, my boy!"
"My daughter," said Cutler, "tells me that in Demauritius, of which her husband is Governor, they have some extraordinarily beautiful country and she constantly——"
But Cutler's reminiscences are cut short, here is the Chequers, and here is Coombe with a tankard of beer in his hand. He waves the tankard to Sir Josiah unblushingly and drinks his jolly good health.
"And your jolly good health too, Coombe, my boy, what a morning! What's the time! Eleven—Bless me, we must have dawdled on the way! Beer! the air's good enough for me—like wine, sir, wine—the finest wine in the world!"
"Race you to Crawley for a fiver," says Coombe.
"I—I trust—Sir Josiah," says Jobson, "you will not agree, believe me Coombe needs no inducement at all to be reckless, he nearly ran over an old lady in Streatham a very respectable looking old lady, in Croydon he butted into a tram standard, and it is a mercy we were not all killed, and then at Purley Corner—a butcher's cart——"
But Coombe's beer is finished, Jobson is bundled into the car, Coombe starts her up, climbs over Jobson and tramples on his feet, seizes the wheel and away they go.
For all Coombe's boasting and reckless driving, Sir Josiah and Cutler are in Crawley first. Here they swing away to the right to Horsham and leave the Brighton road for good. From now on, their road takes them through the heart of Sussex, Sussex of the quaint wayside cottages, with gardens all blooming and fragrant, Sussex of the chalky white roads, the great undulating sweeps of noble hills. Sing of Devon who will, but can Devon shew such cottage gardens, can she shew anything to compare with yonder glorious range of downs? Green downs on which the passing clouds cast moving shadows of purple and blue, and here and there a gleam of purest white, where the sunlight strikes on to the bare white chalk of some cliff or cutting. Where in all the world grows turf so dense, so fine, so short and sweet and perfect as here upon these rolling hills of chalk. Under the hills the trees are all glowing red and bronze and orange. The car wheels swish among the fallen leaves, the children come running out of the cottages and cling to the gates to watch as the cars go whirling by.
But they are going at a more sober pace now, the country is all too lovely under the September sunshine to rattle through in a cloud of chalky dust. Sir Josiah, eager as he is, calls on Bletsoe to go more quietly, and it is luncheon time when they cross the river and run up into Arundel Town, so luncheon they have in the old Inn and walk up the hill to have a look at the castle, the home of the Howards, while the steak is grilling.