The coachman glanced at him over his shawls, and said to himself, quite in the pit of his stomach. “You’re a rum ’un, you are!”
“P’raps you ar’n’t acquainted with the road, sir?” said he.
“I think—I am sure I know Southbourne,” replied Holdsworth. “What sort of place is it?”
“Vot sort o’ place? Vy, a willage.”
“But what kind of village?”
“All that I know is this, there’s a hinn there vere they serves you vith werry good liquor. Blow’d if I can tell you anything furder. But that’s my veakness, sir. Vould you believe me, I’ve drove coaches through that willage for the last two-and-twenty year, and may I be bil’d if I can tell you anything about it.”
Holdsworth sank into deep thought, while the coachman, twisting his eyes over his shawls, examined his face and clothes with side-long attention; then his curiosity being evidently aroused by something in Holdsworth’s appearance which widely differed from the cut and style of the passengers he was in the habit of carrying, he said:
“Might you be a furriner, sir?”
“No,” answered Holdsworth.
“I’ve a brother in Californy. P’raps you might know them parts, sir?”