The day was bright, and the streets were thronged with vehicles. Brakes, wagonettes, omnibuses, private carriages, and cadger's carts all loaded to their utmost, were climbing out of Douglas by way of the road to Peel. The town seemed to shout; the old island rock itself seemed to laugh.
“Bless me, Christian,” said the Clerk of the Rolls, looking at his watch, “do you know it's half-past ten? Service begins at eleven. Drive on, coachman. You've eight miles to do in half an hour.”
“Can't go any faster with this traffic on the road, sir,” said the coachman over his shoulder.
“I got so absorbed in the newspaper,” said the Clerk, “that—— Well, if we're late, we're late, that's all.”
Philip folded his arms across his breast and hung his head. He was fighting a great battle.
“No idea that the fisherman affair was going to be so serious,” said the Clerk. “It seems the Governor has ordered out every soldier and pensioner. If I know my countrymen, they'll not stand much of that.”
Philip drew a long breath: there was a cloud of dust; the women in the brakes were laughing.
“I hear a whisper that the ringleader is a friend of yours, Christian—'an irregular relative of a high official,' as the reporter says.”
“He is my cousin, sir,” said Philip.
“What? The big, curly-pated fellow you took home in the carriage?... I say, coachman, no need to drive quite so fast.”