A good sportsman, a
lively companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not
too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favourite in
London drawing-rooms or in the coffee-rooms of village inns. At "The
Fisherman's Rest" everyone knew him--for he was fond of a trip across
to France, and always spent a night under worthy Mr. Jellyband's roof
on his way there or back.
He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last
released Sally's waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry
himself: as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at
the two strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and
for a moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his
jovial young face.
But only for a moment; the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who
was respectfully touching his forelock.
"Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?"
"Badly, my lord, badly," replied Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, "but
what can you `xpect with this `ere government favourin' them rascals
over in France, who would murder their king and all their nobility."
"Odd's life!" retorted Lord Antony; "so they would, honest
Hempseed,--at least those they can get hold of, worse luck! But we
have got some friends coming here to-night, who at any rate have
evaded their clutches.
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