Over Westminster Bridge, and along the Old Kent Road they sped, now fast, now slow,—threading a tortuous, and difficult way amid the myriad vehicles, and so, betimes, they reached Blackheath.
And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had aforetime, shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman Legionaries,—up Shooter's Hill, and down,—and so into the open country.
And, ever as they went, they talked. And not as master and servant but as "between man and man,"—wherefore Baxter the Valet became merged and lost in Baxter the Human,—the honest John of the old days,—a gray haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged cosmopolitan who listened to, and looked at, Young Alcides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master George, of years ago.
"So you see, John, if all things do go well with me, we should probably take a trip to the Mediterranean."
"In the—'Silvia,' of course, Master George?"
"Yes; though—er—I've decided to change her name, John."
"Ah!—very natural—under the circumstances, Master George," said honest
John, his eyes twinkling slyly as he spoke, "Now, if I might suggest a
new name it would be hard to find a more original one than 'The Haunting
Spectre of the—"
"Bosh, John!—there never was such a thing, you were quite right, as I said before, and—by heaven,—potato sacks!"
"Eh,—what?—potato sacks, Master George?"
They had been climbing a long, winding ascent, but now, having reached the top of the hill, they overtook a great, lumbering market cart, or wain, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely surly-faced man in a smock-frock.