CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH I HEAR NEWS OF SIR MAURICE VIBART
"Which I says—Lord love me!"
I plunged the iron back into the fire, and, turning my head, espied a figure standing in the doorway; and, though the leather hat and short, round jacket had been superseded by a smart groom's livery, I recognized the Postilion.
"So 'elp me, Bob, if this ain't a piece o' luck!" he exclaimed, and, with the words, he removed his hat and fell to combing his short, thick hair with the handle of his whip.
"I'm glad you think so," said I.
"You can drownd me if it ain't!" said he.
"And, pray, how is the gentleman who—happened to fall and hurt himself, if you remember—in the storm?"
"'Appened to fall an' 'urt 'isself?" repeated the Postilion, winking knowingly, "'urt 'isself,' says you 'Walker!' says I, 'Walker!'" with which he laid his forefinger against the side of his nose and winked again.
"What might you be pleased to mean?"