"Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," rejoined Dick. "I have only to observe one thing more, namely, that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occasion. Not a word. I won't hear a syllable. Landlord, I say—what oh!" continued Dick, stepping out of the arbor. "Here, my old Admiral of the White, what's the reckoning?—what's to pay, I say?"
"Let ye know directly, sir," replied mine host of the Falstaff.
"Order my horse—the black mare," added Dick.
"And mine," said King, "the sorrel colt. I'll ride with you a mile or two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon something."
"Very likely."
"We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, "if nothing happens."
"Agreed," responded Juniper.
"What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?" said the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips.
Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on the green.
It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighboring elm. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was that a shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-the Hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty college against the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing emotion.