A knock at the door interrupted his lordship’s
valuation of art and artists of the French school,
and his sergeant entered to say that his men were
in the saddle.
“Campaigning be damned!” said his captain
wearily.
“Beg pardon, my lord,” added the sergeant,
“but Mr. What’s-his-name has cut off.”
“Good riddance. He’s gone back to
his crony at the ‘Black Swan.’”
“Yes, my lord. T’other’s a
sergeant in my Lord Brocton’s dragoons.”
“Ah, I saw they were hob-and-nob together.
A fellow with a ditch in his face you could lay a
finger in!”
Fortunately for me, the Marquess was busy with a last
glass of wine. Here was ill news with a vengeance.
I had got out of the smoke into the smother.
“My lord,” said Master Freake, “there
is a man of mine, one Dot Gibson, at the ‘Black
Swan,’ and I shall be greatly beholden to you
if you will let your sergeant carry him a note of
instructions from me.”
“Stap me! I’ll take it myself,”
cried his lordship heartily.
Master Freake went to a table to write the note.
I knew now who it was that had given me the warning.
My lord pocketed the note and we all crept quietly
down to the main door to see him off. The guards
made a gallant show in the brilliant moonlight, and
Master Freake, taking my arm, dragged me out to watch
them canter across the stretch of meadow, and drop
out of sight down the hill.
“Sleep in peace, Oliver,” he said.
“Dot Gibson will give us early news of the movements
of the enemy.”
Then we strolled back, talking of the Colonel and
Margaret.
WHAT CAME OF FOPPERY
It was eight by the clock next morning before I set
about my third commission. To begin with, the
bed pulled, and small wonder, since I had not slept
in a bed since leaving home. Then I took my fill
of the books, finding among them no less a prize than
the editio princeps of Virgil, printed at Rome
in 1469, which it was hard to let go. Next there
was Baby Blount to be waited upon, and his mother,
a pretty, appealing lady, with the glory of motherhood
about her like a fairy garment. Part of the ceremonial
was the putting of Master Blount into my arms, which
was done very gingerly, with abundant cautions and
precautions against my crushing or dropping him.
He had a skin like white satin and a silvery down
on his charming little head. Altogether I thought
him a most desirable possession for a man to have,
and wished he was mine, particularly when, to his
father’s outspoken chagrin, instead of puling
he stared steadily at me with big blue eyes and smiled.
“Precious ikkle ducksy-wucksy,” said his
mother.
“Ugly ikkle monkey-wonkey,” cried his
father. “Why the deuce can’t he smile
at me?”
“Try him!” said I, handing him over to
Sir James, glad to be free of the responsibility.
