"At Tonbridge, Perry!" repeated Anthony.
"At Tonbridge!" said I, whereupon the postillion vituperated the rain
and wind, chirruped to his horses, and the chaise rolled away into the
tempestuous dark.
For them, rain and wind and darkness, for me such comfort as the inn
afforded, but of the three it was I who was desolate and forlorn.
CHAPTER IX
DESCRIBES THE WOES OF GALLOPING JERRY, A NOTORIOUS HIGHWAYMAN
"An' now--wot about my door?" demanded a gruff voice. Starting, I
turned to find the landlord at my elbow and immediately my forlornness
grew intensified. I felt miserably helpless and at a loss, for the
man's sullen face seemed to hold positive menace and I yearned
mightily for Anthony's masterful presence beside me or a little of his
polite ferocity.
"Come--wot about my door?" demanded the landlord, more threatening
than ever. "Ten shillin' won't mend my door--"
"What door?" I questioned, fronting his insolent look with as much
resolution as I could summon.
"The door as you an' that desp'rit villain broke betwixt ye--fifteen
shillin'--ah, a pound won't pay for the mendin' o' my door--wot about
it--come!" Here he lurched towards me, shoulders hunched, chin
brutally out-thrust so that I shrank instinctively from him,
perceiving which, he grew the more aggressive.
"That will do!" said I in woefully feeble imitation of Anthony's
masterful manner. "That will do--and what is more--"
"Oh, will it do? Wot about my door?"
"You may charge it in your bill--"
"Not me, by goles! 'T is money as I wants--thirty shillin'--in my
'and--this 'ere very moment.
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