"See them there?" demanded old Lambie suddenly, pointing with his whip to a small company of men marching raggedly across a field beside the lane. "Volunteers, they calls 'em. Drilling to fight Boney if he crosses the Channel, they are. Volunteers! Ar!" He spat to show his opinion of them. "Rapscallions, I calls ' em!"
"Why so? asked Septimus politely.
"Why? 'Cause half of 'em's thieves and vagabonds what's jined for the bounty they pays, two golden guineas! Most on 'em desert when they've got the money and turns thief or footpad. I tell ee, Master Sep, there's been coaches stopped, and that not far from here, by those gentry!"
"Highwaymen, you mean."
"Ar.-Cummup!" Lambie flicked his whip at his old horse. "Last week the Lunnon coach were stopped, Guildford way. Wouldn't surprise me if they black rascals tried their tricks on me some day. Ar!"
"Would you fight if they stopped you?" asked Septimus. "Who-me? That I wouldn't!" said Lambie emphatically. "And if ever you're in a coach what's held at pistol's point by they toby-men, Master Sep, you sit quiet and do as they tell you. That's my advice. 'Tis a hanging matter to stop a coach on the King's highway, so if they have to shoot they shoot to kill. Ar!"
"I don't think I'd like to sit quiet in those circumstances," remarked Septimus thoughtfully.
"No-and you'd not like to lie quiet with a pistol-bullet in you, neither!- Cummup!"
There was a very bumpy piece of road just before they rattled into Greatham, and as the cart lurched into one particularly deep hole Septimus was flung with some force against the rail at the side of his seat. He thrust his hand into his coat-pocket just in time to prevent the thing that lay there from being crushed.
"Hallo!" said Lambie. "Carrying eggs in your pocket, Master Sep.”
"One egg, Lambie," replied Septimus solemnly. "And it's a glass one, too."
The carrier guffawed at what he thought was a joke. But the thing in Septimus's pocket was indeed made of glass, and about the size and shape of a pigeon's egg. Septimus had made it himself the previous evening. It represented a further stage in his chemical experiments, and he was hoping to test it when he got a moment to himself.
Lambie, who was a simple soul, chuckled over the "glass egg" joke all the way to Petersfield and was still chuckling when he pulled up outside the Red Lion Inn. Petersfteld was on the main London-to-Portsmouth road twenty miles from Portsmouth-two hours' going for the London Mail coach. Lambie helped Septimus get his sea-chest onto the porch of the inn and then bade him farewell.
"London coach'll be here in an hour, if she's up to time," he said. "Your uncle told me he'd an inside place reserved for you. So you've time for filling your belly, Master Sep-and my advice is, fill it well. You'll have nowt but salt beef and rotting biscuits once you go to sea!"
Septimus shook hands with him and then went into the inn. It must be admitted that he felt, for the ftrSt time, rather lonely; old Lambie the carrier was the last link with Linton Abbott Rectory and the Reverend Theophilus and Mrs. Cattermole-with Home. But no one would have suspected that the small ftgure in white breeches and blue coat who entered the coffee-room so confidently was feeling anything but perfectly calm. There were several people in the raftered coffee-room, eating at the long table in the window. Septimus took a vacant chair and, when he had ordered the "ordinary" dinner from the waiter, turned his gaze on his companions. There were two men who looked like farmers, eating steak-pudding noisily; a well-dressed lady in cloak and bonnet, with her daughter, a pretty girl of about Septimus's age; and, at the end of the table opposite Septimus, a tall, bony gentleman with a red face and bulging blue eyes, clad like Septimus in white breeches and blue uniform coat but with a great deal of gold braid on his coat-sleeves. It hardly needed the straight sword and cocked hat lying on the window-seat to tell Septimus that this was a real naval officer.
The old wooden-legged lieutenant at Linton Abbott was the nearest approach to a sea-officer of the British Fleet that Septimus had ever seen, and it is possible that his steady grey eyes remained fixed on the red-faced officer rather longer than was polite. It soon appeared that the officer thought so.
"Hah!" he said suddenly, glaring back at Septimus. "Don't think I've the honour of your acquaintance, sir!"
His voice was like the rasping of a file a thousand times magnified, thought Septimus.
"No, sir," he admitted.
"But by Hector, you're determined to know me when we meet again!" rasped the officer. "Hah! Hah-hah-hah!"
He appeared to think that he had made a particularly good joke. Septimus observed that the girl was smiling, and decided that he didn't like the red-faced gentleman.
"Hah-hah-hah!" he responded.
On the face of it, he seemed to be politely joining in the laugh.
But in Septimus's laughter there was just the suspicion of an echo of the red-faced officer's horse-Iaugh - faint indeed, but enough to make that gentleman go a deeper red and glare wrathfully, while the girl buried a fit of giggles in her handkerchief. Perhaps fortunately, the waiter provided a diversion by arriving at that moment with a plate of steak-pudding for Septimus, and the meal proceeded in a silence broken only by the lusty gobbling of the two farnlers.
Septimus, remembering Lambie's advice, dealt heartily with the Red Lion's excellent pudding. As he ate he reflected with satisfaction that he had not altogether lost the accomplishment of mimicry. Six months ago one of his peculiar studies had been the imitation of the voice of every bird and beast, and most of the human inhabitants, of Linton Abbott.
Presently the red-faced officer got up, and with a final glare at Septimus went into the taproom, where he could be heard shouting ill-temperedly for wine. A little later the landlord of the Red Lion came into the coffee-room.
"Ladies and gents," he said, wiping his hands on his apron, "by your leave, London coach is doo in ten minutes."
"Landlord!" called the lady, as he was turning to go. "A word with you-Is it true that mail coaches have been robbed on the Portsmouth road lately?"
"We-e-ell," replied the landlord hesitatingly, "it's true there's been a bit of trouble, now and again, with the toby-men. But you've no call to be afeard, ma'am," he added quickly. "The guards on all the London Mails is armed with blunderbusses, since last Toosday. What's more, you'll be safe in Portsmouth by six o'clock in the evening and them rascals don't usually pull their flash tricks by full daylight."
"Thank you," said the lady. "I am not afraid, I assure you. Particularly," she added, with a pleasant smile at Septimus, "as we have a King's officer with us. I presume, sir, you are travelling to Portsmouth?"
Septimus rose from his chair. "I am, ma'am," he returned.
"I am Lady Barry, and this is my daughter Philippa."