In a very short time Dicky and Tom got back to their chaffing mood. I was sorry not to have some conversation with the stranger. The latter, however, did not seem inclined to exchange jokes with them and became silent, every now and then, however, speaking a few words with Oldershaw, behind whom he sat. We separated in London, where Oldershaw took us to a respectable lodging-house with which he was acquainted, and early the next morning we started by the coach for Lincolnshire. Oldershaw and I occupied the only two places outside.
Just as the coach was starting, who should we see but the stranger who had come up with us from Portsmouth.
“There is one place inside if you do not mind taking it,” said the guard. “Very sorry, otherwise you will have to wait for the night coach, or to-morrow morning.”
The stranger stepped in and the coach drove off. I need not describe the incidents of the journey. It was dusk when we arrived at Whithyford. At length the light from the window of the little inn, at the end of the lane where I purposed getting down, appeared in sight. Begging the coachman to stop, I wished Oldershaw good-bye, and descended from my perch on the roof. My chest and bag were handed down, and the coach drove on.
“I cannot believe my eyes, Master Burton, sure it’s not you!” exclaimed Mrs Fowler, the landlady of the “Wheatsheaf.”
I assured her that I was no other than little Ben Burton, though somewhat increased in bulk during the five years I had been absent.
“And my mother?” I asked. “Is she well? And her kind friends?” The answer was satisfactory. The Misses Schank had, however, gone out to a tea party at Mr Simmon’s the lawyer.
“And my mother?” I asked, “is she there too?”
“Oh! No, Lor’ bless you, she never goes to such gay doings. She would be stopping to look after the old lady, who keeps up wonderfully. And I should not be surprised but what you find somebody else there. There was a strange gentleman came over from Ireland some days gone, and has been stopping in my house. He is a free and easy spoken sort of man, though I do not understand all he says, for he speaks in the Irish way, but he is a good customer at the bar, and is liberal-handed enough. However, Master Burton, I do not know as I should advise your mother to go and do it. You see if he was to ask me, it would be a different matter. I could hold my own. Besides, I am accustomed to such doings as his. When my good man that’s gone, Simon Fowler, was alive, he was not happy till he had got a few quarts of beer in his inside—not to speak of gin and rum. But do you see, your dear mother is a different sort of person, and it would not do for her to take up with a gentleman with such habits.”
I now began to comprehend the drift of the landlady’s remarks.