“Well, there’s Peter Bunkle for one, there’s nothing as he don’t notice! And old Mr. Dumbrell, he talks o’ nothing else, lately.” “Ah, he tells you that I am ‘sweet on her,’ I suppose?” “Con-stantly, sir!” “Well, Bob, the Aged Soul is right—so I am!” “Yes, sir!” “Ha, you were already aware o’ this incredible fact?” “I sur-mised same, sir.” “You see, Bob, I intend to marry her.” The Corporal was, and actually looked, startled. “Marry her!” he repeated in a strangled voice. “Your honour!... Marry her!” “Indeed, Bob, I intend to marry and settle down at High Dering at last, unless—aye, unless the Fateful Sisters see fit to cut short the thread o’ my existence.” “God forbid, sir!” “Amen, Bob. And yet the world would wag as merrily without me.... Do you believe in presentiments, Bob?” “No, sir ... and yet——” “Neither do I.” “Sir, I’ve known men as did.” “Aye, we mortals be queer creatures, Bob! An ill dream, a fit o’ the indigestion, a chill on the liver, and we grow full o’ forebodings, see dire omens and portents in everything and start at our own shadows.... Queer creatures!... And here we part awhile. You to keep an eye on the unsuspecting Sturton should he ride hither, and I to ‘The Anchor,’ where you will meet me at six.” “Very good, sir!” “’Tis like enough our quest may be ended sooner than we hoped, Robert.” So saying, Sir John gave his steed the rein and rode on into Seaford town. Dismounting before the small Anchor Inn, he gave his horse to the ostler and his hand to Mr. Levitt the landlord, who forthwith ushered him into cosy parlour. Mr. Levitt was by nature a jovial soul but, just now, his good-natured features were overcast, and he sighed, shaking despondent head over that hard Fate which, as he mournfully declared, “’ad made o’ pore Potter an ’omeless wanderer an’ drove Cap’n Sharkie Nye into the arms o’ them French furrineers and ruinated my trade, sir. Aye, by the Pize, sir, I moight jest as well close the ol’ ‘Anchor’ for arl the good I do these days—crool ’ard, I calls it!” “How, is trade so bad, Mr. Levitt?” “Worser’n bad it be, sir!” “Is the place quite empty, then?” “As a blessed drum, sir! Never a soul ’cept a couple o’ naun-account chaps. Lord, I dunno wot Sussex be a-comin’ tu, that I doan’t. Wot I sez is as them theer Preventives will ruin old England, aye by Goles, they will—dannel ’em! Shall us mak’ it French wine, sir, or summat a liddle stronger?” “Nay, let it be October ale, thank ye, Mr. Levitt. And I’ll take it in the ‘tap.’” “Why, sir,” demurred the landlord, “the ‘tap’ bean’t ’ardly the place for a gen’elman o’ your quality, an’ Sir ’Ector’s friend an’ arl.”