“I have not had anything in the way of an apology yet, sir,” he said.
John Gore lifted his hat, watching Captain Grylls carefully, to see whether his lack of recognition was a blind or no. He remembered that he had had the collar of his coat turned up that night in the park, and that he himself might not have recognized Grylls but for the wryness of his figure.
“Most certainly, I offer you my apologies, sir. I was in a hurry, and had taken a bridle-track, having business Hastings way by eight.”
John Gore coarsened himself to the likeness of a gentleman farmer in his best clothes.
“You will crack your skull and spill your business if you ride about it in such fashion.”
“We Sussex folk have hard heads.”
“And no manners—either,” quoth the man in the brown coat, glancing rather threateningly at the pistol-holsters on his saddle.
He limped up to his horse, and examined the saddle-bag to see that his things were there. Then he jammed his hat down on his head, looked sourly at his muddy clothes, and passed a hand over the wettest portion of his figure.
“A nice start for a thirty-mile ride. I shall have to bait somewhere and dry my breeches.”
“A day in the saddle, then?”