“Most extr’ordinary.”
“Which road do I take to get to it quickest?” The constable pointed with his stick. “I know the landlord and the landlady, and I want to get there for breakfast.”
“I could see you was well connected,” remarked the constable pleasantly, “by the fit of your coat. Give my regards to ’em, and tell ’em from me that ten o’clock’s their time for closing, not ’alf-past.”
“Right,” said Bobbie.
“Give us another verse of ‘Dreamt I dwelt,’” begged the constable, “’fore you go.”
The country was already rousing itself, being a country that went to bed early, and able, therefore, to rise betimes. Smoke puffed straight out of the chimneys stuck atop of the infrequent cottages; a grateful scent of boiling tea came from the open doors across the gardens of flowers to the roadway. Conceited poultry strutted out to the gate and crowed; birds up in the trees whistled and chirruped ceaselessly; rooks flew about near a row of tall poplars trying their voices, voices which seemed rather hoarse and out of practice. At one place by the side of the roadway where the green border was spacious, gipsies in their yellow-painted van were bestirring themselves, and scantily-clothed, brown-skinned children affected to wash at the brook whilst their parents quarrelled loudly. The male parent broke off to call to Bobbie, asking him if he wanted a lift to London. Bobbie shook his head, and hurried on up the hill. A postman went by on his tricycle, reading the postcards entrusted to him as he went; at the diamond-patterned windows on the top floor of cottages, apple-cheeked, white-shouldered girls were doing their hair, holding a rope of it between their teeth and plaiting the rest. A tramp who had been sleeping in a barn slouched along, picking straws from his deplorable clothes and swearing softly to himself. Men in thick, earth-covered boots came out of their houses to go to their work in the fields, and small babies waved hands to them from the protected doorways. Bobbie noticed, away from the road, a small, dilapidated house with a vague, unintelligible sign-post, and anxious to arrive at the Duchess’s hotel without error, he went to inquire. He pushed open the door; stepped in on the floor of uneven bricks. A lazy smell of stale beer pervaded the low-ceilinged passage; to the right was a room with a dirty table, dirtier by reason of sticky rings made by pots of beer. At the end of the table, smooth spaces caused by practice of the game of shove-halfpenny.
“Shop!” called Bobbie.
No answer! He went through the passage. It was a beer-house evidently; a few casks stood about and unwashed earthenware mugs lined the counter. Dirt and untidiness everywhere. Upstairs he heard a voice crooning, and he listened anxiously, for the song seemed familiar.
“You should see us in our landor when we’re drivin’ in the Row,
You should ’ear us chaff the dukes and belted earls.
We’re daughters of nobility—”
“The Duchess!” cried the boy.