A man
has to be born to fine clothes, like a bird to fine feathers, before he
looks well in them. The thought made me rueful. I jammed my hat on
fiercely, and slapped Sultan into a longer stride.
The man ahead of me was, out of question, the Government spy, Weir. It
was now a full day and more since I had crammed my Virgil into his maw,
and he had had time to get into these parts. Thirty years before there had
been much feeling for the honest party hereabouts, and among the gentry
along the border of the shires there would be some in whose hearts the old
flame still flickered. Indeed, my own errand proved so much, and a
noser-out like Weir would be well employed in rooting up fragments of
gossip over the bottle and memories of beery confidences at market
ordinaries--sunken straws which showed the back-washes of opinion beneath
the placid surface flow of our rural life. I dug my fingers into my thigh
and imagined I was wringing the rascal's greasy neck, and the feeling did
me good.
I began to ride past scattered houses and then between rows of cottages.
Sultan was tiring a little, but, being an experienced horse, pricked up at
the sight and cantered down the dead main street of the town.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351