“Mornin’, Flintoff’, how are ye?” cried Sir Moses, waving his hand from his loftier vehicle, as they drew up.
“Mornin’, Heslop, how goes it? Has anybody seen anything of Monsieur?” asked he, without waiting for an answer to either of these important inquiries.
“He’s coming, Sir Moses,” cried several voices, and presently the Marseillaise hymn of liberty was borne along on the southerly breeze, and Jack’s faded black hunting-cap was seen bobbing up and down in the crowd that encircled him, as he rode along on Paul Straddler’s shooting pony.
Jack had been at the brandy bottle, and had imbibed just enough to make him excessively noisy.
“Three cheers for Monsieur Jean Rougier, de next Emperor of de French!” cried he, rising in his stirrups, as he approached the crowd, taking off his old brown hunting-cap, and waving it triumphantly, “Three cheers for de best foxer, de best fencer, de best fighter in all Europe!” and at a second flourish of the cap the crowd came into the humour of the thing, and cheered him lustily. And then of course it was one cheer more for Monsieur; and one cheer more he got.
“Three cheers for ould England!” then demanded Mr. Gallon on behalf of Mr. Flintoff, which being duly responded to, he again asked “What onybody would do ‘boot it Frenchman?”
“Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Moses, standing erect in his dogcart, and waving his hand for silence: “Now, gentlemen, listen to me!” Instead of which somebody roared out, “Three cheers for Sir Moses!” and at it they went again, Hooray, hooray, hooray, for when an English mob once begins cheering, it never knows when to stop. “Now, gentlemen, listen to me,” again cried he, as soon as the noise had subsided. “It’s one o’clock, and it’s time to proceed to business. I called you here that there might be no unnecessary trespass or tampering with the ground, and I think I’ve chosen a line that will enable you all to see without risk to yourselves or injury to anyone” (applause, mingled with a tinkling of the little bells). “Well now,” added he, “follow me, and I’ll show you the way;” so saying, he resumed his seat, and passing through the gate turned short to the right, taking the diagonal road leading down the hill, in the direction of Featherbedfordshire.
“Where can it be?” was then the cry.
“I know,” replied one of the know-everything ones.
“Rainford, for a guinea!” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, fighting with Tippy Tom, who wanted to be back.