in their pony cart.  There I saw statesmen and soldiers, noblemen and lawyers, farmers and squires, with roughs of the East End and yokels of the shires, all toiling along with the prospect of a night of discomfort before them, on the chance of seeing a fight which might, for all that they knew, be decided in a single round.  A more cheery and hearty set of people could not be imagined, and the chaff flew about as thick as the dust clouds, while at every wayside inn the landlord and the drawers would be out with trays of foam-headed tankards to moisten those importunate throats.  The ale-drinking, the rude good-fellowship, the heartiness, the laughter at discomforts, the craving to see the fight—­all these may be set down as vulgar and trivial by those to whom they are distasteful; but to me, listening to the far-off and uncertain echoes of our distant past, they seem to have been the very bones upon which much that is most solid and virile in this ancient race was moulded.

But, alas for our chance of hastening onwards!  Even my uncle’s skill could not pick a passage through that moving mass.  We could but fall into our places and be content to snail along from Reigate to Horley and on to Povey Cross and over Lowfield Heath, while day shaded away into twilight, and that deepened into night.  At Kimberham Bridge the carriage-lamps were all lit, and it was wonderful, where the road curved downwards before us, to see this writhing serpent with the golden scales crawling before us in the darkness.  And then, at last, we saw the formless mass of the huge Crawley elm looming before us in the gloom, and there was the broad village street with the glimmer of the cottage windows, and the high front of the old George Inn, glowing from every door and pane and crevice, in honour of the noble company who were to sleep within that night.

CHAPTER XV—­FOUL PLAY

My uncle’s impatience would not suffer him to wait for the slow rotation which would bring us to the door, but he flung the reins and a crown-piece to one of the rough fellows who thronged the side-walk, and pushing his way vigorously through the crowd, he made for the entrance.  As he came within the circle of light thrown by the windows, a whisper ran round as to who this masterful gentleman with the pale face and the driving-coat might be, and a lane was formed to admit us.  I had never before understood the popularity of my uncle in the sporting world, for the folk began to huzza as we passed with cries of “Hurrah for Buck Tregellis!  Good luck to you and your man, Sir Charles!  Clear a path for a bang-up noble Corinthian!” whilst the landlord, attracted by the shouting, came running out to greet us.

“Good evening, Sir Charles!” he cried.  “I hope I see you well, sir, and I trust that you will find that your man does credit to the George.”

“How is he?” asked my uncle, quickly.