George stopped at the
inn door to have a word with Pickering, and while they were talking I
climbed to the top of the front wheel of the coach to give instructions
to the drivers. I told them to drive at a moderate gait down Candlestick
Street and the Strand till they reached Charing Cross; then to turn up
towards Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields and take the crooked road across
the Common till they reached the Oxford Road. When on the main highway,
they were to travel at full gallop.
"How long is the journey, sir?" asked one of the drivers. "I ask so that
I may know how fast to drive the horses."
"Between six and seven leagues," I answered.
"Ah, they can go that distance at a good pace if we on the box don't
freeze to death," he returned, buttoning up his greatcoat, bringing the
rug tightly about him and drawing on his gloves.
I sprang from the wheel and started to enter the coach just as George
left Pickering, but when I put my foot on the step, I saw a small man
sitting in the furthest corner of the back seat.
"Come, come, what are you doing here? And who are you?" I asked, stepping
into the coach for the purpose of pulling the fellow out.
I was greeted by a soft laugh and this answer: "I am sitting here, and my
name is Betty Pickering."
"My God, Betty, you can't go with us," I exclaimed, making ready to help
her out of the coach.
But she put her hand over my mouth to silence me and whispered, "The men
on the box must not know me.
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