Fifty years' wear could not have worsened them; and, indeed, from the
whole aspect of the man, you might guess him a century old, were it
not for the nimbleness of his gestures and his eyes, which were grey,
alert, and keen as needles.
I acknowledged his salutation as he ranged up beside me.
"Will my company, sir, offend you? By your coat I suspect your
trade: _venatorem sapit_--hey?"
His voice exactly fitted his eyes. Both were sharp and charged with
expression; yet both carried also a hint that their owner had lived
long in privacy. Somehow they lacked touch.
"I am riding homewards," I answered.
"Hey? Where is that?"
The familiarity lay rather in the words than the manner; and I did
not resent it.
"At Bleakirk."
His eyes had wandered for a moment to the road ahead; but now he
turned abruptly, and looked at me, as I thought, with some suspicion.
He seemed about to speak, but restrained himself, fumbled in his
waistcoat pocket, and producing a massive snuff-box, offered me a
pinch. On my declining, he helped himself copiously; and then,
letting the reins hang loose upon his arm, fell to tapping the box.
"To me this form of the herb _nicotiana_ commends itself by its
cheapness: the sense is tickled, the purse consenting--like the
complaisant husband in Juvenal: you take me? I am well acquainted
with Bleakirk-_super-sabulum_. By the way, how is Squire Cartwright
of the Hall?"
"If," said I, "you mean my father, Angus Cartwright, he is dead these
twelve years.
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