“Ah.—that’s always the case—nothing but delay in this cursed country.”
“If his Excellenza would only walk into the house—”
“No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want nothing but horses, and as quick as possible. John! see that the horses are got ready, and don’t let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if we’re delayed over the time, I’ll lodge a complaint with the postmaster.”
John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master’s orders, with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. He was a ruddy, round-faced fellow, with hair cropped close; a short coat, drab breeches, and long gaiters; and appeared to have almost as much contempt as his master for everything around him.
In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage and walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his pockets: taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well made; dressed with neatness and precision, wore a travelling-cap of the color of gingerbread, and had rather an unhappy expression about the corners of his mouth; partly from not having yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been able to get on at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other cause for haste than an Englishman’s usual hurry to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the regular phrase, “to get on.”
After some time the servant returned from the stable with as sour a look as his master.
“Are the horses ready, John?”
“No, sir—I never saw such a place. There’s no getting anything done. I think your honor had better step into the house and get something to eat; it will be a long while before we get to Fundy.”
“D—n the house—it’s a mere trick—I’ll not eat anything, just to spite them,” said the Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect of being so long without his dinner.
“They say your honor’s very wrong,” said John, “to set off at this late hour. The road’s full of highwaymen.”