Macloud had borrowed an extra pair of riding breeches and puttees, from his friend, and, at the time appointed, the two men passed through the office.
“The horses are waiting, sir!” the clerk informed them.
Two negro lads were holding a pair of rawboned nags, that resembled saddlers about as much as a cigar-store Indian does a sonata. Croyden looked them over in undisguised disgust.
“If these are Cheney’s Best,” he commented, “what in Heaven’s name are his worst?”
“Come on!” said Macloud, adjusting the stirrups. “Get aboard and leave the kicking to the horses, they may be better than they look. Where does one cross the Severn?” he asked a man who was passing.
“Straight up to the College green,” he replied, pointing; “then one square to the right to King George Street, and on out it, across College Creek, 108 to the Marine Barracks. The road forks there; you turn to the right; and the bridge is at the foot of the hill.”
They thanked him, and rode away.
“He ought to write a guide book,” said Croyden.
“How do you know he hasn’t?” Macloud retorted. “Well paved streets,—but a trifle hard for riding.”
“And more than a trifle dirty,” Croyden added. “My horse isn’t so bad—how’s yours?”