He's there most nights." "If you please, sir, will you set me down?
I can shift for myself somehow--indeed I can! I promised--that is, I mean, Mr.Whitmore won't like it if--if--" While I stammered on, Mr.Rogers pulled up the mare, quartering at the same time to make room for the mail-coach as it thundered up the road from westward and swept by at the gallop, with lamps flashing and bits and swingles shaken in chorus.
"Look here, what's the matter ?" he demanded.

"Why don't you want to meet Whitmore ?" Then as I would not answer but continued to entreat him, "There's something deuced fishy about you.

Here I find you, stark naked, hiding from the soldiers: yet you can't be one of the 'trade,' for you don't know the country or the folks living hereabouts--only Whitmore: and Whitmore you won't meet, and your name you won't tell, nor where you come from--only that you've been swimming.

'Swimming,' good Lord! You didn't swim from France, I take it." He flicked his whip and fell into a muse.

"And I'm a Justice of the Peace, and the Lord knows what I'm compounding with." He mused again.