“No, sir ... and yet——”
“Neither do I.”
“Sir, I’ve known men as did.”
“Aye, we mortals be queer creatures, Bob! An ill dream, a fit o’ the indigestion, a chill on the liver, and we grow full o’ forebodings, see dire omens and portents in everything and start at our own shadows.... Queer creatures!... And here we part awhile. You to keep an eye on the unsuspecting Sturton should he ride hither, and I to ‘The Anchor,’ where you will meet me at six.”
“Very good, sir!”
“’Tis like enough our quest may be ended sooner than we hoped, Robert.”
So saying, Sir John gave his steed the rein and rode on into Seaford town. Dismounting before the small Anchor Inn, he gave his horse to the ostler and his hand to Mr. Levitt the landlord, who forthwith ushered him into cosy parlour.
Mr. Levitt was by nature a jovial soul but, just now, his good-natured features were overcast, and he sighed, shaking despondent head over that hard Fate which, as he mournfully declared, “’ad made o’ pore Potter an ’omeless wanderer an’ drove Cap’n Sharkie Nye into the arms o’ them French furrineers and ruinated my trade, sir. Aye, by the Pize, sir, I moight jest as well close the ol’ ‘Anchor’ for arl the good I do these days—crool ’ard, I calls it!”
“How, is trade so bad, Mr. Levitt?”
“Worser’n bad it be, sir!”