So great was my astonishment
that I stopped to stare at him, whereupon he stopped to scowl at me.
"Well?" he enquired gruffly. "An' what now?"
"You--can shed tears also, then?" said I.
"Well, an' why not?" he demanded. "Can't a cove grieve now an' then if
he's a mind to?"
"But you're a highwayman!"
"Which seein' you say so, I'll not deny," said he. "So I'll trouble
you for your purse an' also your ticker--an' sharp's the word!" And
speaking, he whipped a pistol beneath my chin, whereupon I delivered
up the articles named as quickly as my consternation would allow. "And
now," said he, pocketing my erstwhile property and seizing my arm
again, "come on, friend, an' let this be a warnin' never to disturb a
'ighwayman wot grieves."
"Why do you grieve?"
"For my Chloe!"
"Your wife?"
"Wife--no! Never 'ad a wife--never shall. There's no woman breathin'
could ekal my Chloe for love an' faithfulness--used to nibble my 'air,
she did, poor lass!"
"Nibble your hair?" I repeated. "Pray who was she?"
"My mare, for sure--my pretty mare as 'adn't 'er ekal for speed nor
wind--my mare as they Bow Street dogs shot an' left to bleed 'er life
out in the mud an' be damned to 'em."
"Then the tale of your wife and babies weeping for you was untrue?"
"Every word of it, friend. An' what then? A man's apt to say anything
to save 'is neck--now ain't 'e? Wouldn't you?"
Now at this I was silent and we walked for a while with never a word.
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