The Panchronicon Part 35

bananas in a bag!" he said, crossly.

"Well--well--a truce to trivial complaints," said Bacon, hurriedly, fearful that Droop might withdraw his consent to the rescue. "Here are my cloak and hat, friend; and now away, I pray you, and remember--ride to southward, that I may have a clear field to London."

Droop donned the hat and cloak and gazed at himself sorrowfully in the gla.s.s.

"Darned ef I don't look like a cross 'tween a Filipino and a crazy cowboy!" he muttered.

"And think you I have not suffered in the exchange, Master Droop?" said Bacon, reproachfully. "In very truth, I were not worse found had I shrunken one half within mine own doublet!"

After some further urging, Droop was induced to descend the stairs, and soon the two men stood together at the breach in the brick wall. They heard the low whinnying of a horse close at hand.

"That is my steed," Bacon whispered. "You must mount with instant speed and away with all haste to the south, Master Droop."

"D'ye think I won't split these darned pants and tight socks?" said Droop.

"Hush, friend, hus.h.!.+" Bacon exclaimed. "The bailiffs must not know we are here till they see you mount and away. Nay--nay--fear not. The hose and stockings will hold right securely, I warrant you."

"Well, so long!" said Droop, and the next moment he was in the saddle.

"G'lang there! Geet ap!" he shouted, slapping the horse's neck with his bridle.

With a snort of surprise, the horse plunged forward das.h.i.+ng across the moonlit field. A moment later, Bacon saw two other horses leap forward in pursuit from the dark cover of a neighboring grove.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "The lure hath taken!"

Then leaning over he rubbed his s.h.i.+ns ruefully.

"How the night wind doth ascend within this barbarous hose!" he grumbled.

CHAPTER IX

PHOEBE AT THE PEAc.o.c.k INN

While Copernicus Droop was acquiring fame and fortune as a photographer, Rebecca and Phoebe were leading a quiet life in the city.

Phoebe was perfectly happy. For her this was the natural continuation of a visit which her father, Isaac Burton, had very unwillingly permitted her to pay to her dead mother's sister, Dame Goldsmith. She was very fond of both her aunt and uncle, and they petted and indulged her in every possible way.

Her chief source of happiness lay in the fact that the Goldsmiths favored the suit of Sir Guy Fenton, with whom she found herself deeply in love from the moment when he had so opportunely arrived to rescue the sisters from the rude horse-play of the Southwark mob.

Poor Rebecca, on the other hand, found herself in a most unpleasant predicament. She had shut herself up in her room on the first day of her arrival on discovering that her new hosts were ale drinkers, and she had insisted upon perpetuating this imprisonment when she had discovered that she would only be accepted on the footing of a servant.

Phoebe, who remembered Rebecca both as her nineteenth-century sister and as her sixteenth-century nurse and tiring-woman, thought this determination the best compromise under the circ.u.mstances, and explained to her aunt that Rebecca was subject to recurring fits of delusion, and that it was necessary at such times to humor her in all things.

On the very day of the visit of Francis Bacon to the Panchronicon, the two sisters were sitting together in their bed-room. Rebecca was at her knitting by the window and Phoebe was rereading a letter for the twentieth time, smiling now and then as she read.

"'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into her sister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we've ben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed a postman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house."

"No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phoebe.

Rebecca grunted crossly.

"I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher, Phoebe," she said.

"Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phoebe, saucily.

Rebecca's face brightened.

"My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phoebe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."

"Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phoebe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting--without the house?"

"Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?"

"Yes--say it so an thou wilt," said Phoebe, shyly.

"Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do--at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blus.h.i.+ng.

"Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will,"

Phoebe continued. "But she hath been full circ.u.mspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot."

"Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."

Phoebe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca.

"What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"

"You mean Sir Guy," said Phoebe, in injured tones.

"Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"

"Why, truth to tell," said Phoebe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca."

"My sakes--that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it?

You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"

"Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?"

She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange.

"Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I?

Shall I not?"

"Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phoebe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London."

"The Post-Office--" Phoebe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.