The captain leaned out of the window.

"Postilion," he called, "which inn here is most favoured by gentlemen?"

"The Castle," said the boy, turning in his saddle to grin at me. "But
if I might be so bold as to advise your honour, the 'Swan' is a
comfortable house, and well attended."

"Know your place, sirrah," shouted the captain, angrily, "and drive us to
the 'Castle.'"

The boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pulled us up at the
inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three particular showers we had
run through that day. And, as usual, the landlord, thinking he was about
to receive quality, came scraping to the chaise door, only to turn with a
gesture of disgust when he perceived John Paul's sea-boxes tied on
behind, and the costume of that hero, as well as my own.

The captain demanded a room. But mine host had turned his back, when
suddenly a thought must have struck him, for he wheeled again.

"Stay," he cried, glancing suspiciously at the sky-blue frock; "if you
are Mr. Dyson's courier, I have reserved a suite."

This same John Paul, who was like iron with mob and mutiny, was pitiably
helpless before such a prop of the aristocracy. He flew into a rage, and
rated the landlord in Scotch and English, and I was fain to put my tongue
in my cheek and turn my back that my laughter might not anger him the
more.