THE EXETER ROAD 



99 



had their day. The talk is of the six bottles drunk 

 overnight, of the recent battle on Crawley Down, and 

 Lord Byron's expedition to Missolonghi. Mirabel 

 listens with ears intent, and is at the instant accosted 

 by a ruffianly-looking fellow, made after the manner of 

 the desperadoes who pursue our cabs for miles when 

 we return wnth our families from the sea-side, and insist 

 upon tendering assistance with the luggage. Their pro- 



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T'/tc Afi'f^ at an Iiai. 



genitor of 1823 snatches Mirabel's portmanteau out of 

 his trembling hands, breathes upon him brandy, and 

 says, " What coach, your honour ? " betraying, I fear, 

 a Celtic origin. 



" I wish to go home to Exeter," says Mirabel mildly. 

 Upon which the desperado tells him he is just in time, 

 and that in point of fact, " Here she comes ! Them 

 gray horses ! " 



11 2 



