"Sir," said he slowly, "I'll bring you a man who, though he is little known as yet, will be famous some day, for he is what I may term an artist in cloth. And sir,"—here Peterby's voice grew uncertain—"you shall find me worthy of your trust, so help me God!" Then he opened the door, went out, and closed it softly behind him. But as for Barnabas, he sat with his gaze fixed on the ceiling again, lost in reverie and very silent. After a while he spoke his thoughts aloud.
"A race!" said he.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE—AND RODE IT
The coffee-room at the "George" is a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,—but upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon, flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and bowed.
"Dinner, sir?" he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and coughed disapprobation into his napkin. "Did you say dinner, sir?" he inquired again.
"Thank you, no," answered Barnabas.
"Perhaps cheese an' a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say—a half of porter?"
"I've only just had breakfast," said Barnabas, aware of the waiter's scrutiny.
"Ah!" sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, "you're
Number Four, I think—night coach?"
"Yes."
"From the country of course, sir?"
"Yes—from the country," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little, "but how in the world did you guess that?"
"From your 'toot example,' sir, as they say in France—from your appearance, sir."
"You are evidently a very observant man!" said Barnabas.
"Well," answered the waiter, with his gaze still riveted upon the neckcloth—indeed it seemed to fascinate him, "well, I can see as far through a brick wall as most,—there ain't much as I miss, sir."
"Why, then," said Barnabas, "you may perhaps have noticed a door behind you?"
The waiter stared from the neckcloth to the door and back again, and scratched his chin dubiously.
"Door, sir—yessir!"
"Then suppose you go out of that door, and bring me pens, and ink, and paper."
"Yessir!"
"Also the latest newspapers."
"Yessir—certainly, sir;" and with another slight, though eloquent cough into his napkin, he started off upon his errand. Hereupon, as soon as he was alone, Barnabas must needs glance down at that offending neckcloth, and his frown grew the blacker.
"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as he set them on the table.
"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."
"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.
"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again, "now—what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make it sherry?"
"Neither," said Barnabas.
"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir—'ighly esteemed by connysoors and (cough again) other—gentlemen."
"No, thank you."
"On the other 'and—to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"—here the waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head—"ale, sir, likewise beer, small and otherwise."
"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door is still where it was."
"Door, sir, yessir—oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of the room.
Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and began to write as follows:—
George Inn,
Borough.
June 2, 18—.
To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,
MY DEAR DICK,—I did not think to be asking favors of you so soon, but—(here a blot).
