“An officer gets his orders from those above him.”

“But an officer does not have the lash hung over his head.  I saw a poor fellow at the inn here—­it was some years ago—­who showed us his back in the tap-room, all cut into red diamonds with the boat-swain’s whip.  ‘Who ordered that?’ I asked.  ‘The captain,’ said he.  ‘And what would you have had if you had struck him dead?’ said I.  ‘The yard-arm,’ he answered.  ’Then if I had been you that’s where I should have been,’ said I, and I spoke the truth.  I can’t help it, Rod!  There’s something here in my heart, something that is as much a part of myself as this hand is, which holds me to it.”

“I know that you are as proud as Lucifer,” said I.

“It was born with me, Roddy, and I can’t help it.  Life would be easier if I could.  I was made to be my own master, and there’s only one place where I can hope to be so.”

“Where is that, Jim?”

“In London.  Miss Hinton has told me of it, until I feel as if I could find my way through it from end to end.  She loves to talk of it as well as I do to listen.  I have it all laid out in my mind, and I can see where the playhouses are, and how the river runs, and where the King’s house is, and the Prince’s, and the place where the fighting-men live.  I could make my name known in London.”

“How?”

“Never mind how, Rod.  I could do it, and I will do it, too.  ‘Wait!’ says my uncle—­’wait, and it will all come right for you.’  That is what he always says, and my aunt the same.  Why should I wait?  What am I to wait for?  No, Roddy, I’ll stay no longer eating my heart out in this little village, but I’ll leave my apron behind me and I’ll seek my fortune in London, and when I come back to Friar’s Oak, it will be in such style as that gentleman yonder.”

He pointed as he spoke, and there was a high crimson curricle coming down the London road, with two bay mares harnessed tandem fashion before it.  The reins and fittings were of a light fawn colour, and the gentleman had a driving-coat to match, with a servant in dark livery behind.  They flashed past us in a rolling cloud of dust, and I had just a glimpse of the pale, handsome face of the master, and of the dark, shrivelled features of the man.  I should never have given them another thought had it not chanced that when the village came into view there was the curricle again, standing at the door of the inn, and the grooms busy taking out the horses.

“Jim,” I cried, “I believe it is my uncle!” and taking to my heels I ran for home at the top of my speed.  At the door was standing the dark-faced servant.  He carried a cushion, upon which lay a small and fluffy lapdog.

“You will excuse me, young sir,” said he, in the suavest, most soothing of voices, “but am I right in supposing that this is the house of Lieutenant Stone?  In that case you will, perhaps, do me the favour to hand to Mrs. Stone this note which her brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, has just committed to my care.”