George and I each carried a heavy sword and a pistol in addition to two hand guns, primed and charged, which lay in a box on the coach floor.  The drivers on the box were each armed with a sword and a pistol.  They had been reluctant to leave the kitchen fire to face the storm, but when they had a hint that a fight was possible, and when Pickering offered them a guinea each, they changed their minds, quickly wrapped themselves in greatcoats, and were on the box when we came out.  George stopped at the inn door to have a word with Pickering, and while they were talking I climbed to the top of the front wheel of the coach to give instructions to the drivers.  I told them to drive at a moderate gait down Candlestick Street and the Strand till they reached Charing Cross; then to turn up towards Saint-Martin’s-in-the-Fields and take the crooked road across the Common till they reached the Oxford Road.  When on the main highway, they were to travel at full gallop.

“How long is the journey, sir?” asked one of the drivers.  “I ask so that I may know how fast to drive the horses.”

“Between six and seven leagues,” I answered.

“Ah, they can go that distance at a good pace if we on the box don’t freeze to death,” he returned, buttoning up his greatcoat, bringing the rug tightly about him and drawing on his gloves.

I sprang from the wheel and started to enter the coach just as George left Pickering, but when I put my foot on the step, I saw a small man sitting in the furthest corner of the back seat.

“Come, come, what are you doing here?  And who are you?” I asked, stepping into the coach for the purpose of pulling the fellow out.

I was greeted by a soft laugh and this answer:  “I am sitting here, and my name is Betty Pickering.”

“My God, Betty, you can’t go with us,” I exclaimed, making ready to help her out of the coach.

But she put her hand over my mouth to silence me and whispered, “The men on the box must not know me.”

Betty pushed me backward out of the coach, came out herself and led me to George, who, by that time, was halfway across the courtyard.

“Who are you?” cried George, surprised to see the little man beside me, for Betty was in greatcoat, trousers, and boots.

“I am Betty, and Baron Ned says I shall not go with you.”

“No, no, Betty,” answered George.  “See the snow, the sleet, and the storm.  It is freezing and the wind cuts like a knife.  It would kill you to go with us.”

“Think a moment,” she answered, whispering, so that her words might not be overheard by the men on the box.  “Mistress Jennings may need the help of a woman, but in any case you shall not have the coach and horses if I don’t go.”

“Does your father know?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, come on!  We are wasting valuable time,” answered Betty, starting toward the coach.