“Indeed, sir,” replied I, amused with
his imposition, “I should like to accompany
you—for, as Josephus says most truly, ’Capiat
pillulae duae post prandium.’ Travel
is, indeed, a most delightful occupation, and I would
like to run over the whole world.”
“And I would like to follow you,” interrupted
Timothy. “I suspect we have commenced our
grand tour already—three miles behind
a hackney-coach—ten on foot, and about
two, I should think, in this wagon. But as Cophagus
says, Cochlearija crash many summendush,’
which means, ‘there are ups and downs in this
world.’”
“Hah!” exclaimed our companion. “He,
also, has the rudiments.”
“Nay, I hope I’ve done with the Rudimans,”
replied Timothy.
“Is he your follower?” inquired the man.
“That very much depends upon who walks first,”
replied Timothy, “but whether or no—we
hunt in couples.”
“I understand—you are companions.
’Concordat cum nominativo numero et persona.’
Tell me, can you roll pills, can you use the pestle
and the mortar, handle the scapula, and mix ingredients?”
I replied that of course I knew my profession.
“Well, then, as we have still some hours of
night, let us now obtain some rest. In the morning,
when the sun hath introduced us to each other, I may
then judge from your countenances whether it is likely
that we may be better acquainted. Night is the
time for repose, as Quintus Curtius says, ’Custos,
bos, fur atque sacerdos. Sleep was made for
all—my friends, good-night.”
In which the adventures
in the wagon are continued, and we become
more puzzled with our
new companions—We leave off talking Latin,
and enter into an engagement.
Timothy and I took his advice, and were soon fast
asleep. I was awakened the next morning by feeling
a hand in my trouser’s pocket. I seized
it, and held it fast.
“Now just let go my hand, will you?” cried
a lachrymal voice.
I jumped up—it was broad daylight, and
looked at the human frame to which the hand was an
appendix. It was a very spare, awkwardly-built
form of a young man, apparently about twenty years
old, but without the least sign of manhood on his
chin. His face was cadaverous, with large goggling
eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding
me of a rat’s nest, thin lips, and ears large
almost as an elephant’s. A more woe-begone
wretch in appearance I never beheld, and I continued
to look at him with surprise. He repeated his
words with an idiotical expression, “Just let
go my hand, can’t you?”
“What business had your hand in my pocket?”
replied I, angrily.
“I was feeling for my pocket-handkerchief,”
replied the young man. “I always keeps
it in my breeches’ pocket.”
“But not in your neighbour’s, I presume?”
