'Then I thank you most humbly and gratefully, sir,' Lewrie was forced to say. 'However things fall out, I will be forever in your debt.'
'Yayss… you
A chariot… Jesus!
Oh, it had seemed perky enough, at first. Just a rapid jaunt, what? The sporting blades of the aristocracy and the squirearchy were simply
If an urchin or two, one of the cheap fares who rode on the top or clung to the footmen's seats atop the boot, were bounced off and got turned into imitation cow-pies in the road, then so be it. If the slow and unwary hiker got trampled, well… it only made for a better tale at journey's end!
Chariots were even better, for well-to-do young bloods could be,
And dour old Zachariah Twigg, so precise and Oxonian a fellow of the older generation, surely his chariot and matched team of horses was merely a retired fellow's affectation… wasn't it?
Unfortunately, no. Once aboard, Twigg had revealed a new facet to his character. There was a mischievious glint to his eyes, an evil little chuckle under his breath, and a sly smile on his lips as he took the reins in one hand, a long whip in the other, and turned into a Biblical Jehu.
They were off in a flash, headed downhill for his estate's gate quicker than a startled lark, making a fair rate of knots even before they passed the gate in the inner wall surrounding Spyglass Bungalow, moist dirt and gravel flying in twin rooster-tails from the madly-spinning wheels. At the highway, Twigg didn't slow
'Brisk… ah ha!' Twigg exulted as they thundered along,
'Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!' Lewrie replied, unable to form words, if he cared a whit for his teeth and tongue, as the chariot drummed, banged, and juddered. His
Down the long, slow rise they tore, the chariot's axle starting to
'On, boys! On!' Twigg cried, cracking his whip over the horse team's heads.
'You're a bloody shite-brained…!' Lewrie tried accusing, but the chariot took a jounce or two, wheels
Lewrie looked ahead of them (with one slitted eye, it here must be told) just in time to screech, 'Watch out for that… Oh, Christ!' as Twigg swerved their chariot over almost to the verge of the highway to miss an offending hay-waggon drawn by a yoke of plodding oxen, that flashed past in a twinkling, so quickly that all Lewrie could sense of their near-collision was an ox-bellow, a startled cow-fart, and a waggoner's thin cry of 'Yew
And, by the time they'd slewed back into their proper lane, the light pony trap coming the other way had had time to move right over, and they missed that'un
'Aah… ha ha ha!' Twigg exulted, his long whip cracking, and Lewrie shut his eyes and tried to summon up a prayer.
Twigg, damn him!, drove as if the Devil was at his heels (which in Twigg's case, Lewrie thought, was an apt description!) chortling and whooping delight like Billy-O; like an ancient Celt warrior, mead-drunk and painted in blue woad, out to smash through a Roman legion, just one more good charge for good, sweet ancient Queen Boadicea; like Pharaoh raced in pursuit of that damned Moses, upon discovering that the wily bastard had decamped for the Promised Land
All Lewrie could do was hang on for dear life to the front and the side frame and light screening wood, and try hard not to get thrown clean out of the infernal machine, have his 'wedding tackle' knackered by his luggage, or lose his only change of clothing, entire! A time or two, on the flat stretches (without competing traffic, though Lewrie wasn't going to peek to determine that), it was even hard to breathe at their mad pace. Facing forward, it felt like he was aboard the quickest frigate ever built, going 'full and by' into the apparent wind in a half-gale. Of course, the muck flung up from the team made breathing difficult enough.
Finally… after what seemed an interminable term in Hell, the drumming of horses' hooves slowed from a Marine drummer's 'Long Roll' to summon a crew to Quarters to rather sedate, and distinctive clops.
He, at last, dared take a peek 'twixt the ringers of one hand, the one he used to rake mud-slime from his eyes, and was amazed to see that they were on the Tottenham Court Road, just about to the crossing where it became Charing Cross.
'We're here,' Twigg commented with a grunt of satisfaction, and a peek at his pocket watch, as if he'd just beaten his old record for a 'jaunt' to town. Indeed, they were; Lewrie's addled senses re-awoke to the sights, sounds, and smells of bustling London. Twigg had removed his ancient tricorne (now much the worse for wear) and had replaced it with a natty new-styled hat; his grimy muffler now lay at his feet, as did his old overcoat, revealing the 'country squire' suitings he'd had on during dinner. He looked clean as a new penny-whistle… damn him!
With a twitch of his reins, Twigg swung them onto Oxford Street, headed west. 'I will drop you at your father's gentlemen's hotel and club, Lewrie,' he told him. 'You are sure to get lodging there… and at a significant discount, I'd wager, hah? Right round the corner to mine own house in Baker Street. Convenient, that, for our purposes.'
'Should I dine with you tonight, then, sir?' Lewrie asked, flexing his hands, now that there was no need to cling to the chariot with a death-grip.
'Not a bit of it!' Twigg barked, back to his old, imperious self. 'There's too much for me to do, tonight, to put your salvation on good, quick footing.
'What a pity,' Lewrie said, tongue-in-cheek, now that he could trust using it without the end of it getting snipped off on a deep rut and a bounce. Which statement made Twigg glare down his nose at him.
'It would be best for you if you kept close to your lodgings, Lewrie,' Twigg instructed. 'No gadding about. No drunken sailor's antics, for a time. And I'll thank you to keep your breeches buttoned up snug, as long as we're here, sir. Let us not give your anonymous tormentor any