“Damn your liver!” he cried to the horse, and then, to me:  “If you’ll jest call Joe to ’old this ’ere black varmin for me, I’ll —­fill yer—­eye up.”

“Thanks,” said I, “but I much prefer to keep it as it is; really there is no need to trouble Joe, and as for you, I wish you good morning!”

And when I had gone a little way, chancing to glance back over my shoulder, I saw that the Outside Passenger stood upon the inn steps, and was staring after me.

CHAPTER XII

THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER

Following the high road, I came, in a little, to where the ways divided, the one leading straight before me, the other turning sharp to the left, where (as I remember) is a very steep hill.

And at the parting of the ways was a finger-post with the words:  “To London.  To Tonbridge Wells.  To Pembry.”  Now as I stood beneath the finger-post, debating which road I should take, I was aware of the sound of wheels, and, glancing about, saw a carrier’s cart approaching.  The driver was a fine, tall, ruddy-faced fellow, very spruce as to his person, who held himself with shoulders. squared and bolt upright, and who shouted a cheery greeting to me.

“If so be you are for Pembry, or thereabouts, sir,” said he, bringing his horses to a standstill, “why, jump up, sir—­that is, if you be so minded.”

“My course lies anywhere,” said I.

“Then—­if you be so minded—?”

“I am so minded,” said I.

“Then, sir, jump up,” said he.

“Thanks!” said I.

So I climbed upon the seat beside him, and then I saw that he had a wooden leg, and straightway understood his smart bearing, and general neat appearance.

“You have been a soldier?” said I.

“And my name’s Tom, and I could tell you a sight about them Spanishers, and Frenchies—­that is, if—­you be so minded?”

“I am so minded; fire away, Tom.”

“Well,” he began, fixing his eyes on the “wheeler’s” ears, “they Frenchies ain’t so bad as is thought, though they do eat frogs, but what I say is—­if they be so minded, why frogs let it be!”

“To be sure!” said I.

“And after all they’re well worth fighting, and that’s more than you can say for a many!”

“True,” said I, “one generally has a certain respect for the man one fights.”

“Then there’s Old Bony.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“I have, sir; I were captured outside the Lines of Torres Vedras, and I saw Old Bony eating his breakfast off a drum-head wi’ one hand and a-writing a dispatch wi’ the other—­a little fat man not so high as my shoulder, look you.  There’s some as says as Old Bony lives on new-born babies, but I know different.  Because why, says you?  Because I’ve seen with these ’ere ‘peepers,’ says I—­bread it were, and cheese, and garlic, and a uncommon lot at that.”