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第12章（第1页）

the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George

Hotel opened the coach-door as his custom was. He did

it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London

in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous

traveller upon.

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left to be

congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their

respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach,

with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its

obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the

passenger, shaking himself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of

shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a

larger sort of dog.

“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”

“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair.

The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir.

Bed, sir?”

“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a