Despite Whipcord’s desponding prophecies, our charger stepped out at a pretty fair pace, and in due time we began to shake off the dust of London from our wheels and meet the first traces of country.
For a considerable time my companion absorbed himself in his cigar—much to my satisfaction—and I, for fear of appearing anxious for conversation, betook myself to mine.
At length, however, after about half an hour thus occupied, Masham broke the silence.
“Know Hawkesbury well?” he asked.
“Pretty well,” I answered; “we were at school together first, and now we’re in the same office.”
“Nice boy at school?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Not quite sure, eh?”
“I always got on well with him.”
“Yes, you would. Sort of a nest for bad eggs, that school, wasn’t it?”