He glanced at John Gore, but did not seem to recognize him, and, getting upon his feet, limped to and fro awhile, cursing. Then he began slapping his pockets with his hands to make sure that his purse and pocket-book were there, looking at John Gore the while out of the corners of his eyes. “I have not had anything in the way of an apology yet, sir,” he said. John Gore lifted his hat, watching Captain Grylls carefully, to see whether his lack of recognition was a blind or no. He remembered that he had had the collar of his coat turned up that night in the park, and that he himself might not have recognized Grylls but for the wryness of his figure. “Most certainly, I offer you my apologies, sir. I was in a hurry, and had taken a bridle-track, having business Hastings way by eight.” John Gore coarsened himself to the likeness of a gentleman farmer in his best clothes. “You will crack your skull and spill your business if you ride about it in such fashion.” “We Sussex folk have hard heads.” “And no manners—either,” quoth the man in the brown coat, glancing rather threateningly at the pistol-holsters on his saddle. He limped up to his horse, and examined the saddle-bag to see that his things were there. Then he jammed his hat down on his head, looked sourly at his muddy clothes, and passed a hand over the wettest portion of his figure. “A nice start for a thirty-mile ride. I shall have to bait somewhere and dry my breeches.” “A day in the saddle, then?” “Tunbridge to-night, London to-morrow.” He put his foot in the stirrup and climbed up heavily, grunting and swearing to ease his temper. “I wish you a clear road, sir,” he said, with sarcasm. “You would do well to lead a charge of horse.” “I can only assure you of my regrets, my dear sir. We farmer gentry ride fast when there is a marriage to be arranged.” Captain Grylls tilted his nose. “Green youth, green youth!” he said, sententiously. “In ten years, my lad, you will break your neck riding to be rid of the sweet thing’s temper. Let the blood be hot for a month or two, till she begins to scold in bed instead of kissing.” John Gore laughed. “You are a man of experience, sir. Well, I must not waste your time—or my own.” The man in the brown coat went away with a jeer. “Spend your time on a wife, my lad, and you’ll waste it. Learn to spend it on other men’s wives—steal the kisses, and leave them the scratches.” “Good-morning to you, sir; I wish I had some spare small-clothes to lend you.” “They’ll dry in the saddle, Master Numskull, or I’ll sit with my back to the next fire I come across.” And he went off at a trot into the autumn woods.