Aristocracy (Social class) -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Great Britain -- History -- Anne, 1702-1714 -- Juvenile fiction
They pulled up at the quaint old inn at Edgeware, and rode into the
courtyard, where lackeys and hostlers were making merry together, and
where some handsome horses were being groomed down, prior to being put
into the cumbersome but very handsome coach that stood beneath the
protecting galleries which ran round the court. The lackeys wore a
livery of snuff-coloured cloth, with a quantity of gold lace about it.
The panels of the coach were snuff-coloured, and there was much heavy
gilding about it, which was being polished with great zeal by the
servants of the inn. It was plainly the equipage of some person of
quality, and had evidently put up there for the night, but was likely to
be wanted shortly for the road again.
Grey dismounted, and leaving Dick in charge of the horses, made his way
in through the low-browed entrance, along a sanded passage, and so to
the public room, the door of which stood open. As a boy he had known
this house, and it still seemed familiar to him, though it had changed
hands since he had been there last, and his face was not known to mine
host.
"Your pardon, sir," spoke this functionary, bustling forward on his
entrance, "but this room is bespoke for my Lord Sandford. If you are
wanting a meal, it shall be quickly served elsewhere—"
But at that moment a rollicking voice from the foot of the adjacent
staircase broke in upon the excuses of the host.
"Gadzooks, man, but it shall be nothing of the sort. Set a cover for
the gentleman at my table. Gosh! is a man so enamoured of his own
company that he must needs drive all the world away?—Come in, sir, come
in, and take pot-luck with me.—Landlord, see you give us of your best,
or I’ll spit you on your own jack! I’ve a great thirst on me, mind you;
and let the dishes be done to a turn.—Take a seat in the window, sir;
the air blows fresh and pleasant, but it will be infernally hot ere
noon. I must be off and away in good time. In London streets you can
find shade; but these country roads—hang them all!—get like
What’s-his-name’s fiery furnace seven times heated if they don’t chance
to run through forest land!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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