“Thank you, I am better now,” he exclaimed.
“Glad to hear it,” said the coachman.
“I will get down here.”
“Aren’t you booked for Hanwitch!” exclaimed the guard, who imagined that the gentleman’s head wandered.
“No—this will do—I will go no further. Help me with your hand—thank you.”
He reached the ground, watched by a group of persons who made a movement as though to support him, when they saw him swaying to and fro like a drunken man, and staring fixedly down the road. But in a moment or two, with a struggle, he stood firm. His portmanteau was handed out and carried into the bar. The guard took his place; the coachman, with a glance over his shawls to see that Holdsworth stood clear of the wheels, jerked the reins, and the coach rattled out of sight.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
SOUTHBOURNE.
Right in the middle of the road stood Holdsworth, casting his eyes first to the right, then to the left, then letting them rest fixedly on the house at the extremity.