“Yes—that is, a good many of the boys were a bad sort,” said I, not very comfortable to be undergoing this cross-examination.
“I understand. You weren’t, of course, eh?” said he, digging me in the ribs with his knuckles.
His manner was most offensive. I felt strongly inclined to resent it, and yet somehow I felt that to be civil to him would be the less of two evils.
“Hawkesbury doing well at the office, eh?”
“Certainly!” said I. “Why not?”
“See no reason at all. Worthy chap, Hawkesbury. Nice boy at home; great comfort to the old people.”
“Really,” said I, “you know him much better than I do.”
“Ah! should get to know Hawkesbury all you can. Moral chap—like you and me, eh?” and here followed another dig in the ribs.
This was getting intolerable. However, at this point Whipcord pulled up at a wayside inn, much to my relief. Anything was better than Masham’s conversation.
We halted a quarter of an hour, to give our horse time to get breath, as Whipcord explained, but, as it really seemed, to allow that gentleman and Masham to refresh themselves also.