The Story of Kennett | Page 4

heavy silver watch from his fob, and carefully
holding it so that the handful of glittering seals could be seen by
everybody, appeared to meditate.
"Five minutes to one," he said at last. "No use in waiting much longer;
't isn't good to keep the hounds fretting. Any signs of anybody else?"
The others, in response, turned towards the lane and highway. Some,
with keen eyes, fancied they could detect a horseman through the wood.
Presently Giles, from his perch at the door of the corn-crib, cried out:
"There's somebody a-comin' up the meadow. I don't know the hoss;
rides like Gilbert Potter. Gilbert it is, blast me! new-mounted."
"Another plough-horse!" suggested Mr. Joel Ferris, a young Pennsbury
buck, who, having recently come into a legacy of four thousand pounds,
wished it to be forgotten that he had never ridden any but
plough-horses until within the year.
The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at their own
well-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly, for they knew
the approaching guest, and felt a slight compunction in seeming to side
with Mr. Ferris. Barton began to smile stiffly, but presently bit his lip
and drew his brows together.
Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he stared
vacantly up the lane, muttering "We must wait, I suppose."

His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by the
arm, and exclaimed:--
"Whom have we here?"
All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman in
the lane.
"Upon my soul I don't know," said Ferris. "Anybody expected from the
Fagg's Manor way?"
"Not of my inviting," Barton answered.
The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the stranger, who,
having by this time passed the bars, rode directly up to the group. He
was a short, broad-shouldered man of nearly forty, with a red, freckled
face, keen, snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick,
jet-black whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of those eyes,
the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his skin where it was not
reddened by the wind, quite dazzling. This violent and singular contrast
gave his plain, common features an air of distinction. Although his
mulberry coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if his
breeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular thighs and strong
knees they covered, told of a practised horseman.
He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently not
remarkable for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat.
"Good-day to you, gentlemen!" said the stranger, familiarly knocking
the handle of his whip against his cocked hat. "Squire Barton, how do
you do?"
"How do you do, sir?" responded Mr. Barton, instantly flattered by the
title, to which he had no legitimate right. "I believe," he added, "you
have the advantage of me."
A broad smile, or rather grin, spread over the stranger's face. His teeth
flashed, and his eyes shot forth a bright, malicious ray. He hesitated a

moment, ran rapidly over the faces of the others without perceptibly
moving his head, and noting the general curiosity, said, at last:--
"I hardly expected to find an acquaintance in this neighborhood, but a
chase makes quick fellowship. I happened to hear of it at the Anvil
Tavern,--am on my way to the Rising Sun; so, you see, if the hunt goes
down Tuffkenamon, as is likely, it's so much of a lift on the way."
"All right,--glad to have you join us. What did you say your name
was?" inquired Mr. Barton.
"I didn't say what; it's Fortune,--a fortune left to me by my father, ha!
ha! Don't care if I do"--
With the latter words, Fortune (as we must now call him) leaned down
from his saddle, took the black bottle from the unresisting hands of Mr.
Ferris, inverted it against his lips, and drank so long and luxuriously as
to bring water into the mouths of the spectators. Then, wiping his
mouth with the back of his freckled hand, he winked and nodded his
head approvingly to Mr. Barton.
Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the meadow, after
dismounting and letting down the bars, over which his horse stepped
slowly and cautiously,--a circumstance which led some of the younger
guests to exchange quiet, amused glances. Gilbert Potter, however,
received a hearty greeting from all, including the host, though the latter,
by an increased shyness in meeting his gaze, manifested some secret
constraint.
"I was afraid I should have been too late," said Gilbert; "the old break
in the hedge is stopped at last, so I came over the hill above, without
thinking on the swampy bit, this side."
"Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?" said Mr. Ferris, touching
a neighbor with his