"Though I'd beg to remind you, sir, as orders is orders, and consequently she's bound to marry 'is Lordship—some day—"
"Or—become a mutineer!" said Barnabas, as the door opened to admit Peterby, who (to the horror of the Gentleman-in-Powder, and despite his mutely protesting legs), actually brought in the ale himself; yet, as he set it before the Bo'sun, his sharp eyes were quick to notice his young master's changed air, and brightened as if in sympathy.
"I want you, John, to know my good friend Bo'sun Jerry," said
Barnabas, "a Trafalgar man—"
"'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four!" added the Bo'sun, rising and extending his huge hand.
"We are all going to Hawkhurst, at once, John," continued Barnabas, "so pack up whatever you think necessary—a couple of valises will do, and tell Martin I'll have the phaeton,—it's roomier; and I'll drive the bays. And hurry things, will you, John?"
So John Peterby bowed, solemn and sedate as ever, and went upon his errand. But it is to be remarked that as he hastened downstairs, his lips had taken on their humorous curve, and the twinkle was back in his eyes; also he nodded his head, as who would say:
"I thought so! The Lady Cleone Meredith, eh? Well,—the sooner the better!"
Thus the Bo'sun had barely finished his ale, when the
Gentleman-in-Powder appeared to say the phaeton was at the door.
And a fine, dashing turn-out it was, too, with its yellow wheels, its gleaming harness, and the handsome thorough-breds pawing impatient hoofs.
Then, the Bo'sun having duly ensconced himself, with Peterby in the rumble as calm and expressionless as the three leather valises under the seat, Barnabas sprang in, caught up the reins, nodded to Martin the gray-haired head groom, and giving the bays their heads, they were off and away for Hawkhurst and the Lady Cleone Meredith, whirling round corners and threading their way through traffic at a speed that caused the Bo'sun to clutch the seat with one hand, and the glazed hat with the other, and to remark in his diffident way that: