In shady leaves of destiny.’
“I’m content to believe in ‘the shady leaves of destiny.’”
Miss Levering was busy managing “Sorry,” who seemed restive. His ears were perked ahead, and he tossed his head nervously.
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry, boy,” she soothed. “He sees something strange. There’s a man sitting on the roadside with a lot of pails around him. Trust ‘Sorry’ for picking out anything unusual.”
Blynn looked forward, but from his side of the carriage could see nothing.
“It’s a tramp, I suppose,” she conjectured. “They roost in here. Looks like a travelling tinker. ‘Whoa, Sorry! It’s all right, boy!’ If I talk to him he calms down. ‘Whoa, Sorry! Keep your head down, boy!’”
The man came into view; he was seated on a log hammering at a copper disk, a swarthy, stoutish fellow. A huge gold watch-chain stared out from his waistcoat. He wore no collar. A faded soft hat was decorated with a long turkey-feather. The costume, plus a large mustachio and much unshaved stubble, gave him an air of vagabondia.
“Sorry” slowed down and dug into the ground; the man looked up with smiling face.
“Bon jour, la compagnie!” he saluted, flourishing his hammer. Broad rings flashed from his fat hands.
Blynn searched about for traces of companions. The tall bushes gave no sign.