“Ah!—­an’ wi’ a fine view o’ the graves!” growled Jeremy, leading the way out.

In the street stood a chaise and four, surrounded by a pushing, jostling throng of men, women, and children, who, catching sight of me between the Bow Street Runners, forgot to push and jostle, and stared at me with every eye and tooth they possessed, until I was hidden in the chaise.

“Right away!” growled Jeremy, shutting the door with a bang.

“Whoa!” roared a voice, and a great, shaggy golden head was thrust in at the window, and a hand reached down and grasped mine.

“A pipe an’ ‘baccy, Peter—­from me; a flask o’ rum—­Simon’s best, from Simon; an’ chicken sang-widges, from my Prue.”  This as he passed in each article through the window.  “An’ I were to say, Peter, as we are all wi’ you—­ever an’ ever, an’ I were likewise to tell ’ee as ’ow Prue’ll pray for ‘ee oftener than before, an’ —­ecod!” he broke off, the tears running down his face, “there were a lot more, but I’ve forgot it all, only, Peter, me an’ Simon be goin’ to get a lawyer chap for ’ee, an’—­oh, man, Peter, say the word, an’ I’ll have ‘ee out o’ this in a twinklin’ an’ we’ll run for it—­”

But, even as I shook my head, the postboy’s whip cracked, and the horses plunged forward.

“Good-by, George!” I cried, “good-by, dear fellow!” and the last I saw of him was as he stood rubbing his tears away with one fist and shaking the other after the chaise.

CHAPTER XLV

Which concerns itself, among other matters, with the boots of the saturnine Jeremy

“A bottle o’ rum!” said the man Bob, and taking it up, very abstracted of eye, he removed the cork, sniffed at it, tasted it, took a gulp, and handed it over to his companion, who also looked at, sniffed at, and tasted it.  “And what d’ye make o’ that, Jeremy?”

“Tasted better afore now!” growled Jeremy, and immediately took another pull.

“Sang-widges, too!” pursued the man Bob, in a ruminating tone, “an’ I always was partial to chicken!” and, forthwith, opening the dainty parcel, he helped himself, and his companion also.

“What d’ye make o’ them, Jeremy?” he inquired, munching.

“I’ve eat wuss!” rumbled Jeremy, also munching.

“Young cove, they does you credit,” said the man Bob, nodding to me with great urbanity, “great credit—­there ain’t many misfort’nates as can per-jooce such sang-widges as them, though, to be sure, they eats uncommon quick ’old ’ard there, Jeremy—­” But, indeed, the sandwiches were already only a memory, wherefore his brow grew black, and he glared at the still munching Jeremy, who met his looks with his usual impenetrable gloom.

“A pipe and ’bacca!” mused the man Bob, after we had ridden some while in silence, and, with the same serene unconsciousness of manner, he took the pipe, filled it, lighted it, and puffed with an air of dreamy content.