"A race!" said he.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE--AND RODE IT
The coffee-room at the "George" is a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,--but upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon, flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and bowed.
"Dinner, sir?" he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and coughed disapprobation into his napkin. "Did you say dinner, sir?" he inquired again.
"Thank you, no," answered Barnabas.
"Perhaps cheese an' a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say--a half of porter?"
"I've only just had breakfast," said Barnabas, aware of the waiter's scrutiny.
"Ah!" sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, "you're Number Four, I think--night coach?"
"Yes."
"From the country of course, sir?"
"Yes--from the country," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little, "but how in the world did you guess that?"
"From your 'toot example,' sir, as they say in France--from your appearance, sir."
"You are evidently a very observant man!" said Barnabas.
"Well," answered the waiter, with his gaze still riveted upon the neckcloth--indeed it seemed to fascinate him, "well, I can see as far through a brick wall as most,--there ain't much as I miss, sir."
"Why, then," said Barnabas, "you may perhaps have noticed a door behind you?"
The waiter stared from the neckcloth to the door and back again, and scratched his chin dubiously.
"Door, sir--yessir!"
"Then suppose you go out of that door, and bring me pens, and ink, and paper."
"Yessir!"
"Also the latest newspapers."
"Yessir--certainly, sir;" and with another slight, though eloquent cough into his napkin, he started off upon his errand. Hereupon, as soon as he was alone, Barnabas must needs glance down at that offending neckcloth, and his frown grew the blacker.
"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as he set them on the table.
"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."
"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.
"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again, "now--what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make it sherry?"
"Neither," said Barnabas.
"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir--'ighly esteemed by connysoors and (cough again) other--gentlemen."
"No, thank you."
"On the other 'and--to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"--here the waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head--"ale, sir, likewise beer, small and otherwise."
"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door is still where it was."
"Door, sir, yessir--oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of the room.
Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and began to write as follows:--
George Inn, Borough. June 2, 18--.
To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,
MY DEAR DICK,--I did not think to be asking favors of you so soon, but--(here a blot).
"Confound it!" exclaimed Barnabas, and taking out his penknife he began to mend the spluttering quill. But, in the midst of this operation, chancing to glance out of the window, he espied a long-legged gentleman with a remarkably fierce pair of whiskers; he wore a coat of ultra-fashionable cut, and stood with his booted legs wide apart, staring up at the inn from under a curly-brimmed hat. But the hat had evidently seen better days, the coat was frayed at seam and elbow, and the boots lacked polish; yet these small blemishes were more than offset by his general dashing, knowing air, and the untamable ferocity of his whiskers. As Barnabas watched him, he drew a letter from the interior of his shabby coat, unfolded it with a prodigious flourish, and began to con it over. Now, all at once, Barnabas dropped knife and pen, thrust a hand into his own breast and took thence a letter also, at sight of which he straightway forgot the bewhiskered gentleman; for what he read was this:--
Dearest and Best of Sisters,--Never, in all this world was there such an unfortunate, luckless dog as I--were it not for your unfailing love I should have made an end of it all, before now.
I write this letter to beg and implore you to grant me another interview, anywhere and at any time you may name. Of course you will think it is more money I want--so I do; I'm always in need of it, and begin to fear I always shall be. But my reasons for wishing this meeting are much more than this--indeed, _most urgent_! (this underlined). I am threatened by a GRAVE DANGER (this doubly underlined). I am at my wit's end, and only you can save me, Cleone--you and you only. Chichester has been more than kind, _indeed, a true friend to me_! (this also underlined). I would that you could feel kinder towards him.
This letter must reach you where none of your guardian's spies can intercept it; your precious Captain has always hated me, damn him! (this scratched out). Oh, shame that he, a stranger, should ever have been allowed to come between brother and sister. I shall journey down to Hawkhurst to see you and shall stay about until you can contrive to meet me. Chichester may accompany me, and if he should, try to be kinder to your brother's only remaining friend. How different are our situations! you surrounded by every luxury, while I--yet heaven forbid I should forget my manhood and fill this letter with my woes. But if you ever loved your unfortunate brother, do not fail him in this, Cleone.
Your loving, but desperate,
RONALD BARRYMAINE.
Having read this effusion twice over, and very carefully, Barnabas was yet staring at the last line with its scrawling signature, all unnecessary curls and flourishes, when he heard a slight sound in the adjacent box, and turning sharply, was just in time to see the top of a hat ere it vanished behind the curtain above the partition.
Therefore he sat very still, waiting. And lo! after the lapse of half a minute, or thereabouts, it reappeared, slowly and by degrees--a beaver hat, something the worse