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When Maurice Mangan left the train at Winstead, and climbed out of the deep chalk cutting in which the station is buried, and emerged upon the open downs, he found himself in a very different world from that he had left.
He arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time; the odor of consumed gas was almost a shock to him, well as he was used to it, after the clear air of Winstead. And did he grudge or envy the obvious interest and confidence that appeared to have sprung up between his cousin and his friend? Not one bit.
"Yes, that is what Linn Moore has come to," the other said, with entire good-nature. "And what has Maurice Mangan come to? I can remember when Maurice Mangan was to be a great poet, a great metaphysician, a great I don't know what. Winstead was far too small a place for him; he was to go up and conquer London, and do great and wonderful things.
He found the General sitting on a flat rock, a smouldering fire by his side, half way down the valley, at the Winstead House, intently watching the progress of the battle. "Let me go at 'em, General," shouted Forrest in his bluff way, "and I'll flank the federal army out of its position in fifteen minutes." "No! Sir," shouted back Hood. "Charge them out! charge them out!"
"Ravishing scent," repeated Sponge as he wrote the words. 'Very good, said Jack, smoking and considering. "From there," continued he, "he made a bit of a bend, as if inclining for the plantations at Winstead, but, changing his mind, he faced the rising ground, and crossing over nearly the highest part of Shillington Hill, made direct for the little village of Berrington Roothings below."
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