"
And I, sitting outside this sleepy hostelry in this quiet village
street, thought no more of Mr. Shrig's gruesome errand, but rather of
shady copse, of murmurous brooks and of one whose vivid presence had
been an evergrowing joy and inspiration, waking me to nobler manhood,
filling me with aspirations to heroic achievement; and to-day here sat
I, lost in futile dreams--scorning myself for a miserable failure
while the soul within me wept for that Diana of the vanished past--
"Right as ninepence, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming cheerily as he
clambered up beside me. "My birds 'as flew this vay, sure enough!"
Thus as we drove I sat alternately lost in these distressful
imaginings or hearkening to my companion's animadversions upon rogues,
criminals, and crime in general until, as the afternoon waned, we
descended the steep hill into Wrotham village and pulled up at the
"Bull" Inn, into whose hospitable portal Mr. Shrig vanished, to pursue
those enquiries he had repeated at every posthouse along the road.
Presently as I sat, reins in hand, an ostler appeared who, grasping
the horse's bridle and heeding me no whit, led us into the stable
yard. And here I found Mr. Shrig leaning upon his knotted stick and
lost in contemplation of a dusty chaise beneath which lay a perspiring
and profane postboy busied with divers tools upon the front axle.
Now as I glanced at the vehicle, something about it struck me as
familiar and then, despite the dust, I saw that it had red wheels and
a black body picked out in yellow.
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