Damme, somebody's got hold of
him. Still, you can't take the bull by the horns till his nose is
slobbering your waistcoat, so pass the wine, Oliver."
He refilled his glass and then, leisurely and with his eyes dreamily
fixed on the fire, loaded his pipe with a new charge of tobacco, and went
on smoking.
"Are you a Jacobite?" suddenly asked Margaret, looking inquiringly at
Master Freake.
"Dear me, no, Mistress Margaret," was the frank reply. "But you need not
curl those sweet lips of yours, for neither am I a Hanoverian."
"Then what are you?" she asked again, with the same uncompromising
directness.
"A Freakeiteian," said he with a smile.
"It puzzles me," was her brief comment.
"Let me explain," said he simply. "A Jacobite wants Charles to win; a
Hanoverian wants George to win; a Freakeiteian wants to know who is going
to win."
By this time Margaret was no more puzzled than I was. Yesterday when I
stood on the river-bank watching my cork, I cared not a rap whether George
or Charles won, and that was an understandable position; but why a man
should be spending money in handfuls, and roughing it in the wilds of
Staffordshire, merely in order to know who was going to win, was beyond my
poor wits.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225