The Amateur Gentleman

Of all the lions that ever existed, painted or otherwise, white lions,

blue lions, black, green, or red lions, surely never was there one

like the "White Lion" at Tenterden. For he was such a remarkably

placid lion, although precariously balanced upon the extreme point

of one claw, and he stared down at all and sundry with such round,

inquiring eyes, as much as to say: "Who are you? What's your father? Where are you going?" Indeed, so

very inquisitive was he that his very tail had writhed itself into a

note of interrogation, and, like a certain historical personage, was

forever asking a question. To-night he had singled out Barnabas from

the throng, and was positively bombarding him with questions, as: "Dark or fair? Tall or short? Does she love you? Will she remember

you? Will she kiss you--next time? Aha! will she, will she?"

But here, feeling a touch upon his arm, Barnabas turned to find

Peterby at his elbow, and thus once more became aware of the hubbub

about him.

"Box seat, sir; next to the coachman!" says Peterby above the din,

for voices are shouting, horses snorting and stamping, ostlers are

hurrying here, running there, and swearing everywhere; waiters and

serving-maids are dodging to and fro, and all is hurry and bustle,

for the night mail is on the eve of departure for London.

Throned above all this clamor, calmly aloof, yet withal watchful of

eye, sits the coachman, beshawled to the ears of him, hatted to the

eyes of him, and in a wondrous coat of many capes; a ponderous man,

hoarse of voice and mottled of face, who, having swallowed his hot

rum and water in three leisurely gulps, tosses down the glass to the

waiting pot-boy (and very nearly hits a fussy little gentleman in a

green spencer, who carries a hat-box in one hand and a bulging

valise in the other, and who ducks indignantly, but just in time),

sighs, shakes his head, and proceeds to rewind the shawl about his

neck and chin, and to belt himself into his seat, throwing an

occasional encouraging curse to the perspiring ostlers below.

"Coachman!" cries the fussy gentleman, "hi, coachman!"

"The 'Markis' seems a bit fresh to-night, Sam," says Mottle-face

affably to one of the ostlers.

"Fresh!" exclaims that worthy as the 'Marquis' rears again,

"fresh, I believe you--burn 'is bones!"

"Driver!" shouts the fussy gentleman, "driver!"

"Why then, bear 'im up werry short, Sam."

"Driver!" roars the fussy little gentleman, "driver! coachman! oh,

driver!"