ow at first, on account of the crowded
thoroughfares. But, every now and then, the long, low car would shoot
forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus-wheels,
dodging hansoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless
manner. But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat
calm and unruffled, since he knew, by long experience, that Bellew's eye
was quick and true, and his hand firm and sure upon the wheel.

Over Westminster Bridge, and along the Old Kent Road they sped, now
fast, now slow,--threading a tortuous, and difficult way amid the myriad
vehicles, and so, betimes, they reached Blackheath.

And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had
aforetime, shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman Legionaries,--up
Shooter's Hill, and down,--and so into the open country.

And, ever as they went, they talked. And not as master and servant but
as "between man and man,"--wherefore Baxter the Valet became merged and
lost in Baxter the Human,--the honest John of the old days,--a gray
haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged cosmopolitan who listened to, and
looked at, Young Alcides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master
George, of years ago.

"So you see, John, if all things _do_ go well with me, we should
probably take a trip to the Mediterranean."

"In the--'Silvia,' of course, Master George?"

"Yes; though--er--I've decided to change her name, John."

"Ah!--very natural--under the circumstances, Master George," said honest
John, his eyes twinkling slyly as he spoke, "Now, if I might suggest a
new name it would be hard to find a more original one than 'The Haunting
Spectre of the--"

"Bosh, John!--there never was such a thing, you were quite right, as I
said before, and--by heaven,--potato sacks!"

"Eh,--what?--potato sacks, Master George?"

They had been climbing a long, winding ascent, but now, having reached
the top of the hill, they overtook a great, lumbering market cart, or
wain, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely
surly-faced man in a smock-frock.

"Hallo there!" cried Bellew, slowing up, "how much for one of your
potato-sacks?"

"Get out, now!" growled the surly-faced man, in a tone as surly as his
look, "can't ye see as they're all occipied?"

"Well,--empty one."

"Get out, now!" repeated the man, scowling blacker than ever.

"I'll give you a sovereign for one."

"Now, don't ye try to come none o' your jokes