There was John Churchill, a very decent
fellow in a politic way, though in bad company. He afterward married
my laconic cousin Sarah, whose shrewdness made him the first Duke of
Marlborough, and last, I regret to chronicle, was George Hamilton,
resting from his labors at self-reform. Soon after dark another congenial
spirit, the most pusillanimous of them all, young William Wentworth, Sir
William's son and Roger's nephew, entered the taproom dripping with rain.
Before going to the fire, he called Crofts and Berkeley to one side.
Placing his arms about their necks, he drew their faces close to his and
made the following remarkable communication in a low whisper:--
"At the supper table, to-night, my worthy sire let slip the information
that my good uncle of Sundridge had been expected this afternoon. He had
not arrived when I left home fifteen minutes ago, but probably is stuck
in the mud a mile or two outside of London on the St. Albans road."
"Let him stick! What is it to us?" asked Crofts.
"Thus much it is to me," answered Wentworth. "He has with him a thousand
pounds in gold, while I, his gentleman nephew, have not a jacobus to my
name. Now the question becomes one of mere humanity. Shall we allow my
good uncle to stick in the mud, or shall we sally forth like good
Samaritans, relieve him of a part of his load, and make travelling easier
for the dear old man?"
"As men and Christians, we must hasten to his help," declared Crofts.
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