foaming and roaring hoarsely: Pen looked them in the face with blank
eyes, hardly regarding them. What a tide there was pouring into the lad's
own mind at the time, and what a little power had he to check it! Pen
flung stones into the sea, but it still kept coming on. He was in a rage
at not seeing Foker. He wanted to see Foker. He must see Foker. "Suppose
I go on--on the Chatteris road, just to see if I can meet him," Pen
thought. Rebecca was saddled in another half hour, and galloping on the
grass by the Chatteris road. About four miles from Baymouth, the
Clavering road branches off, as everybody knows, and the mare naturally
was for taking that turn, but, cutting her over the shoulder, Pen passed
the turning, and rode on to the turnpike without seeing any sign of the
black tandem and red wheels.

As he was at the turnpike he might as well go on: that was quite clear.
So Pen rode to the George, and the hostler told him that Mr. Foker was
there sure enough, and that "he'd been a makin a tremendous row the night
afore, a drinkin and a singin, and wanting to fight Tom the postboy:
which I'm thinking he'd have had the worst of it," the man added, with a
grin. "Have you carried up your master's 'ot water to shave with?" he
added, in a very satirical manner, to Mr. Foker's domestic, who here came
down the yard bearing his master's clothes, most beautifully brushed and
arranged. "Show Mr. Pendennis up to 'un," and Pen followed the man at
last to the apartment, where, in the midst of an immense bed, Mr. Harry
Foker lay reposing.

The feather bed and bolsters swelled up all round Mr. Foker, so that you
could hardly see his little sallow face and red silk nightcap.

"Hullo!" said Pen.