After what seemed to Coppinger to be an intolerable length of time, Uncle Zachie stumbled down the stairs again.
“I say,” said Mr. Menaida, standing on the steps, “Captain—did you ever hear about Tincombe Lane?—
‘Tincombe Lane is all up-hill,
Or down hill, as you take it;
You tumble up and crack your crown,
Or tumble down and break it.’
—It’s the same with these blessed stairs. Would you mind lending me a hand? By the powers, the banister is not firm! Do you know how it goes on?—
‘Tincombe Lane is crooked and straight
As pot-hook or as arrow.
’Tis smooth to foot, ’tis full of rut,
’Tis wide and then ’tis narrow.’
—Thank you, sir, thank you. Now take the candle. Bah! I’ve broke my pipe—and then comes the moral—
‘Tincombe Lane is just like life
From when you leave your mother,
’Tis sometimes this, ’tis sometimes that,
’Tis one thing or the other.’”
In vain had Coppinger endeavored to interrupt the flow of words, and to extract from thick Zachie the information he needed, till the old gentleman was back in his chair.
Then Uncle Zachie observed—“Blessy’—I said so—I said so a thousand times. No—she’s not there. Tell Aunt Dunes so. Will you sit down and have a drop? The night is rough, and it will do you good—take the chill out of your stomach and the damp out of your chest.”
But Coppinger did not wait to decline the offer. He turned at once, left the house, and dashed the door back as he stepped out into the night. He had not gone a hundred paces along the road before he heard voices, and recognized that of Mr. Scantlebray—