riding-whip.

As he did so, the bond-servant's right hand went to his hip,
as if instinctively seeking something there. The traveller's eyes
followed the impulsive gesture, even while he, too, made a
motion more instinctive than conscious, by stepping backward,
as if to avoid something. This motion he checked, and
said--

"No. Bond-servants don't wear bayonets."

Again the colour sprang to Fownes' face, and his lips parted
as if an angry retort were ready. But instead of uttering it, he
turned and started to leave the room.

"Ay," cried the traveller, "run, while there 's time, deserter."

Fownes faced about in the doorway, with a smile on his face
not pleasant to see, it was at once so contemptuous and so
lowering. Yet when he spoke there was an amused, almost
merry note in his voice, as if he were enjoying something.

"Ar bain't no more deserter than thou baist spy," he retorted,
as he left the tavern and went to where his horse was
tethered. Unfastening him, he stood for a moment stroking
the animal's nose.

"Joggles," he confided, "I fear, despite the praise the fair
ones gave of my impersonation of 'The Fashionable Lover,'
that I am not so good an actor as either Garrick or Barry. I