He pushed away his empty plate; and with a second mug upon the hearth before him, looked thoughtfully at the fire until his eyes ached. Then he looked at the highly-coloured scripture pieces on the walls, in little black frames like common shaving-glasses, and saw how the Wise Men (with a strong family likeness among them) worshipped in a pink manger; and how the Prodigal Son came home in red rags to a purple father, and already feasted his imagination on a sea-green calf. Then he glanced through the window at the falling rain, coming down aslant upon the signpost over against the house, and overflowing the horse-trough; and then he looked at the fire again, and seemed to descry a double distant London, retreating among the fragments of the burning wood.
He had repeated this process in just the same order, many times, as if it were a matter of necessity, when the sound of wheels called his attention to the window out of its regular turn; and there he beheld a kind of light van drawn by four horses, and laden, as well as he could see (for it was covered in), with corn and straw. The driver, who was alone, stopped at the door to water his team, and presently came stamping and shaking the wet off his hat and coat, into the room where Martin sat.
He was a red-faced burly young fellow; smart in his way, and with a good-humoured countenance. As he advanced towards the fire he touched his shining forehead with the forefinger of his stiff leather glove, by way of salutation; and said (rather unnecessarily) that it was an uncommon wet day.
“Very wet,” said Martin.
“I don’t know as ever I see a wetter.”
“I never felt one,” said Martin.
The driver glanced at Martin’s soiled dress, and his damp shirtsleeves, and his coat hung up to dry; and said, after a pause, as he warmed his hands:
“You have been caught in it, sir?”
“Yes,” was the short reply.
“Out riding, maybe?” said the driver.
“I should have been, if I owned a horse; but I don’t,” returned Martin.
“That’s bad,” said the driver.
“And may be worse,” said Martin.
Now the driver said “That’s bad,” not so much because Martin didn’t own a horse, as because he said he didn’t with all the reckless desperation of his mood and circumstances, and so left a great deal to be inferred. Martin put his hands in his pockets and whistled when he had retorted on the driver; thus giving him to understand that he didn’t care a pin for Fortune; that he was above pretending to be her favourite when he was not; and that he snapped his fingers at her, the driver, and everybody else.
The driver looked at him stealthily for a minute or so; and in the pauses of his warming whistled too. At length he asked, as he pointed his thumb towards the road.
“Up or down?”
“Which is up?” said Martin.
“London, of course,” said the driver.
“Up then,” said Martin. He tossed his head in a careless manner afterwards, as if he would have added, “Now you know all about it”; put his hands deeper into his pockets; changed his tune, and whistled a little louder.
“I’m going up,” observed the driver; “Hounslow, ten miles this side London.”
“Are you?” cried Martin, stopping short and looking at him.
The driver sprinkled the fire with his wet hat until it hissed again and answered, “Aye, to be sure he was.”
“Why, then,” said Martin, “I’ll be plain with you. You may suppose from my dress that I have money to spare. I have not. All I can afford for coach-hire is a crown, for I have but two. If you can take me for that, and my waistcoat, or this silk handkerchief, do. If you can’t, leave it alone.”
“Short and sweet,” remarked the driver.
“You want more?” said Martin. “Then I haven’t got more, and I can’t get it, so there’s an end of that.” Whereupon he began to whistle again.
“I didn’t say I wanted more, did I?” asked the driver, with something like indignation.
“You didn’t say my offer was enough,” rejoined Martin.
“Why, how could I, when you wouldn’t let me? In regard to the waistcoat, I wouldn’t have a man’s waistcoat, much less a gentleman’s waistcoat, on my mind, for no consideration; but the silk handkerchief’s another thing; and if you was satisfied when we got to Hounslow, I shouldn’t object to that as a gift.”
“Is it a bargain, then?” said Martin.
“Yes, it is,” returned the other.
“Then finish this beer,” said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling on his coat with great alacrity; “and let us be off as soon as you like.”
In two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling; was lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top of the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of talking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction with a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.
The driver’s name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons, better known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently explained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at Hounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to the concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such errands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which animals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the telling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected
