"Or--become a mutineer!" said Barnabas, as the door opened to admit
Peterby, who (to the horror of the Gentleman-in-Powder, and despite
his mutely protesting legs), actually brought in the ale himself; yet,
as he set it before the Bo'sun, his sharp eyes were quick to notice
his young master's changed air, and brightened as if in sympathy.
"'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four!" added the Bo'sun, rising and
extending his huge hand.
"We are all going to Hawkhurst, at once, John," continued Barnabas,
"so pack up whatever you think necessary--a couple of valises will
do, and tell Martin I'll have the phaeton,--it's roomier; and I'll
drive the bays. And hurry things, will you, John?"
So John Peterby bowed, solemn and sedate as ever, and went upon his
errand. But it is to be remarked that as he hastened downstairs, his
lips had taken on their humorous curve, and the twinkle was back in
his eyes; also he nodded his head, as who would say: "I thought so! The Lady Cleone Meredith, eh? Well,--the sooner the
better!"
Thus the Bo'sun had barely finished his ale, when the
Gentleman-in-Powder appeared to say the phaeton was at the door.
And a fine, dashing turn-out it was, too, with its yellow wheels,
its gleaming harness, and the handsome thorough-breds pawing
impatient hoofs.
Then, the Bo'sun having duly ensconced himself, with Peterby in the
rumble as calm and expressionless as the three leather valises under
the seat, Barnabas sprang in, caught up the reins, nodded to Martin
the gray-haired head groom, and giving the bays their heads, they
were off and away for Hawkhurst and the Lady Cleone Meredith,
whirling round corners and threading their way through traffic at a
speed that caused the Bo'sun to clutch the seat with one hand, and
the glazed hat with the other, and to remark in his diffident way
that: "These here wheeled craft might suit some, but for comfort and
safety give me an eight-oared galley!"