The Broad Highway

"Be you from Lunnon, sir?" inquired the old man, eyeing me

beneath his hoary brows as I set down my tankard.

"Yes," said I.

"Well, think o' that now--I've been a-goin' to Lunnon this five

an' forty year--started out twice, I did, but I never got no

furder nor Sevenoaks!"

"How was that?" I inquired.

"Why, theer's 'The White Hart' at Sevenoaks, an' they brews fine

ale at 'The White Hart,' d'ye see, an' one glass begets another."

"And they sent ye back in the carrier's cart!" said the fat man,

smiling broader than ever.

"Ever see the Lord Mayor a-ridin' in 'is goold coach, sir?"

pursued the old man.

"Yes," said I.

"Ever speak to 'im?"

"Why, no."

"Ah well, I once knowed a man as spoke to the Lord Mayor o'

Lunnon's coachman--but 'e's dead, took the smallpox the year

arterwards an' died, 'e did."

At this juncture the door was thrown noisily open, and two

gentlemen entered. The first was a very tall man with black hair

that curled beneath his hat-brim, and so luxuriant a growth of

whisker that it left little of his florid countenance exposed.

The second was more slightly built, with a pale, hairless face,

wherein were set two small, very bright eyes, rather close

together, separated by a high, thin nose with nostrils that worked

and quivered when he spoke, a face whose most potent feature was

the mouth, coarse and red, with a somewhat protuberant under lip,

yet supported by a square, determined chin below--a sensual mouth

with more than a suspicion of cruelty lurking in its full curves,

and the big teeth which gleamed white and serrated when he

laughed. Indeed, the whole aspect of the man filled me with an

instinctive disgust.

They were dressed in that mixture of ultra-fashionable and horsey

styles peculiar to the "Corinthian," or "Buck" of the period, and

there was in their air an overbearing yet lazy insolence towards

all and sundry that greatly annoyed me.

"Fifteen thousand a year, by gad!" exclaimed the taller of the two,

giving a supercilious sniff to the brandy he had just poured out.

"Yes, ha! ha!--and a damnably pretty filly into the bargain!"

"You always were so infernally lucky!" retorted the first.

"Call it rather the reward of virtue," answered his companion

with a laugh that showed his big, white teeth.

"And what of Beverley--poor dey-vil?" inquired the first.