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Updated: May 27, 2025
Rogers at the end of five minutes, pulling up his mare and jerking his whip towards a splash of white beside the road. "No, sir." He pulled a rein, and brought the light of the offside lamp to bear on a milestone with a bill pasted upon it. "A full, particular, and none too flattering description of you, my lad, with an offer of twenty pounds. And I'm a Justice of the Peace! Cl'k, lass!"
My father stood at the door, and shook hands with me at parting. "Good luck, lad," said he; "and remember our motto: Nil nisi recte! Good luck have thou with thine honour. And, by the way, here's half a sovereign for you." "Cl'k!" from the coachman, shortening up his enormous bunch of reins; ta-ra-ra! from the guard's horn close behind my ear; and we were off!
"There's a rug somewhere by your feet, and Lydia'll do the rest for you. Cl'k, my darling!" Away we bowled. The mare settled down to a beautiful stride and we spun along smoothly over a road which, for a coast road, must have been well laid, or Mr. Rogers's tilbury was hung on exceptionally good springs.
"Then you don't want to hear about the chest o' drawers?" interrupted Zeb in dudgeon, with a glance at Ruby, who pretended not to see it. "Well, no. To tell 'ee the slap-bang truth, I don't care if I see no trace of 'ee till the dancin' begins to commence to-night." "Then good-day t' ye, friends," answered Young Zeb, and turned the mare. "Cl'k, Jessamy!" He rattled away down the lane.
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