The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

“You are going through, sir?” said the coachman.

“Yes, William,” I said, condescendingly (I knew him); “I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.”

“Shooting, sir?” said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

“I don’t know,” I said, pretending to be undecided, “whether I shall take a shot or not.”

“Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,” said William.