Over Westminster Bridge, and along the Old Kent Road they sped, now fast, now slow,—­threading a tortuous, and difficult way amid the myriad vehicles, and so, betimes, they reached Blackheath.

And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had aforetime, shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman Legionaries,—­up Shooter’s Hill, and down,—­and so into the open country.

And, ever as they went, they talked.  And not as master and servant but as “between man and man,”—­wherefore Baxter the Valet became merged and lost in Baxter the Human,—­the honest John of the old days,—­a gray haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged cosmopolitan who listened to, and looked at, Young Alcides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master George, of years ago.

“So you see, John, if all things do go well with me, we should probably take a trip to the Mediterranean.”

“In the—­’Silvia,’ of course, Master George?”

“Yes; though—­er—­I’ve decided to change her name, John.”

“Ah!—­very natural—­under the circumstances, Master George,” said honest John, his eyes twinkling slyly as he spoke, “Now, if I might suggest a new name it would be hard to find a more original one than ’The Haunting Spectre of the—­”

“Bosh, John!—­there never was such a thing, you were quite right, as I said before, and—­by heaven,—­potato sacks!”

“Eh,—­what?—­potato sacks, Master George?”

They had been climbing a long, winding ascent, but now, having reached the top of the hill, they overtook a great, lumbering market cart, or wain, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely surly-faced man in a smock-frock.

“Hallo there!” cried Bellew, slowing up, “how much for one of your potato-sacks?”

“Get out, now!” growled the surly-faced man, in a tone as surly as his look, “can’t ye see as they’re all occipied?”

“Well,—­empty one.”

“Get out, now!” repeated the man, scowling blacker than ever.

“I’ll give you a sovereign for one.”

“Now, don’t ye try to come none o’ your jokes wi’ me, young feller!” growled the carter.  “Sovereign!—­bah!—­Show us.”

“Here it is,” said Bellew, holding up the coin in question.  “Catch!” and, with the word, he tossed it up to the carter who caught it, very dexterously, looked at it, bit it, rubbed it on his sleeve, rang it upon the foot-board of his waggon, bit it again and finally pocketed it.

“It’s a go, sir,” he nodded, his scowl vanishing as by magic; and as he spoke, he turned, seized the nearest sack, and, forthwith sent a cascade of potatoes rolling, and bounding all over the road.  Which done, he folded up the sack, and handed it down to Bellew who thrust it under the seat, nodded, and, throwing in the clutch, set off down the road.  But, long after the car had hummed itself out of sight, and the dust of its going had subsided, the carter sat staring after it—­open-mouthed.