Chapter Thirty One
In which the Plot thickens
The next day our hero, having received the letter with his instructions, went with the wheel down to the copse near to the mansion-house. Here he remained quietly until he heard Miss Melissa coming down the gravel-walk; he waited till she had time to gain her seat, and then, leaving his wheel outside, he walked round the copse until he came to her. She raised her eyes from her book when she saw him.
“If you please, miss, have you any scissors or knives for me to grind?” said Joey, bowing with his hat in his hand.
Miss Mathews looked earnestly at Joey.
“Who are you?” said she at last; “are you the boy who was on this road with a knife-grinder and his wheel yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, madam, we came this way,” replied Joey, bowing again very politely.
“Is he your father?”
“No, madam, he is my uncle; he is not married.”
“Your uncle. Well, I have a pair of scissors to grind, and I will go for them: you may bring your wheel in here, as I wish to see how you grind.”
“Certainly, miss, with the greatest pleasure.”
Joey brought in his wheel, and observing that Miss Mathews had left her book on the seat, he opened it at the marked page and slipped the letter in; and scarcely had done so, when he perceived Miss Mathews and her cousin coming towards him.
“Here are the scissors; mind you make them cut well.”
“I will do my best, miss,” replied Joey, who immediately set to work.
“Have you been long at this trade?” said Miss Mathews.
“No, miss, not very long.”
“And your uncle, has he been long at it?”
Joey hesitated on purpose. “Why, I really don’t know exactly how long.”
“Why is your uncle not with you?”
“He was obliged to go to town, miss—that is, to a town at some distance from here on business.”
“Why, what business can a tinker have?” inquired Araminta.
“I suppose he wanted some soft solder, miss; he requires a great deal.”
“Can you read and write, boy?” inquired Melissa.
“Me, miss! how should I know how to write and read?” replied Joey, looking up.
“Have you been much about here?”
“Yes, miss, a good deal; uncle seems to like this part; we never were so long before. The scissors are done now, miss, and they will cut very well. Uncle was in hopes of getting some work at the mansion-house when he came back.”
“Can your uncle write and read?”
“I believe he can a little, miss.”
“What do I owe you for the scissors?”
“Nothing, miss, if you please; I had rather not take anything from you.”
“And why not from me?”
“Because I never worked for so pretty a lady before. Wish you good morning, ladies,” said Joey, taking up his wheel and rolling it away.
“Well, Araminta, what do you think now? That’s no knife-grinder’s boy; he is as well-bred and polite as any lad I ever saw.”
“I suspect that he is a little story-teller, saying that he could not write and read,” Araminta replied. “And so do I; what made him in such a hurry to go away?”
“I suppose he did not like our questions. I wonder whether the uncle will come. Well, Melissa, I must not quit your father just now, so I must leave you with your book,” and, so saying, Araminta took her way to the house.
Miss Mathews was in a reverie for some minutes; Joey’s behaviour had puzzled her almost as much as what she had overheard the day before. At last she opened the book, and, to her great astonishment, beheld the letter. She started—looked at it—it was addressed to her. She demurred at first whether she should open it. It must have been put there by the tinker’s boy—it was evidently no tinker’s letter; it must be a love-letter, and she ought not to read it. There was something, however, so very charming in the whole romance of the affair, if it should turn out, as she suspected, that the tinker should prove a gentleman who had fallen in love with her, and had assumed the disguise. Melissa wanted an excuse to herself for opening the letter. At last she said to herself, “Who knows but what it may be a petition from some poor person or other who is in distress? I ought to read it, at all events.”
Had it proved to be a petition, Miss Melissa would have been terribly disappointed. “It certainly is very respectful,” thought Melissa, after she had read it, “but I cannot reply to it; that would never do. There certainly is nothing I can take offence at. It must be the tinker himself, I am sure of that: but still he does not say so. Well, I don’t know, but I feel very anxious as to what this will come to. O, it can come to nothing, for I cannot love a man I have never seen, and I would not admit a stranger to an interview; that’s quite decided. I must show the letter to Araminta. Shall I? I don’t know, she’s so particular, so steady, and would be talking of propriety and prudence; it would vex her so, and put her quite in a fever, she would be so unhappy; no, it would be cruel to say anything to her, she would fret so about it; I won’t tell her, until I think it absolutely necessary. It is a very gentleman-like hand, and elegant language too; but still I’m not going to carry on a secret correspondence with a tinker. It must be the tinker. What an odd thing altogether! What can his name be? An old family quarrel, too. Why, it’s a Romeo and Juliet affair, only Romeo’s a tinker. Well, one mask is as good as another. He acknowledges himself poor, I like that of him, there’s something so honest in it. Well, after all, it will be a little amusement to a poor girl like me, shut up from year’s end to year’s end, with opodeldocs always in my nose; so I will see what the end of it may be,” thought Melissa, rising from her seat to go into the house, and putting the letter into her pocket.
Joey went back to Spikeman and reported progress.
“That’s all I wish, Joey,” said Spikeman; “now you must not go there to-morrow; we must let it work a little; if she is at all interested in the letter, she will be impatient to know more.”
Spikeman was right. Melissa looked up and down the road very often during the next day, and was rather silent during the evening. The second day after, Joey, having received his instructions, set off, with his knife-grinder’s wheel, for the mansion-house. When he went round the copse where the bench was, he found Miss Mathews there.
“I beg your pardon, miss, but do you think there is any work at the house?”
“Come here, sir,” said Melissa, assuming a very dignified air.
“Yes, miss,” said Joey, walking slowly to her.
“Now, tell me the truth, and I will reward you with half-a-crown.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Did you not put this letter in my book the day before yesterday?”
“Letter, miss! what letter?”
“Don’t you deny it, for you know you did; and if you don’t tell me the truth, my father is a magistrate, and I’ll have you punished.”
“I was told not to tell,” replied Joey, pretending to be frightened. “But you must tell; yes, and tell me immediately.”
“I hope you are not angry, miss.”
“No, not if you tell the truth.”
“I don’t exactly know, miss, but a gentleman—”
“What gentleman?”
“A gentleman that came to uncle, miss.”
“A gentleman that came to your uncle; well, go on.”
“I suppose he wrote the letter, but I’m not sure; and uncle gave me the letter to put it where you might see it.”
“Oh, then, a gentleman, you say, gave your uncle this letter, and your uncle gave it to you to bring to me. Is that it?”
“Uncle gave me the letter, but I dare say uncle will tell you all about it, and who the gentleman was.”
“Is your uncle come back?”
“He comes back to-night, madam.”
“You’re sure your uncle did not write the letter?”
“La, miss! uncle write such a letter as that—and to a lady like you—that would be odd.”
“Very odd, indeed!” replied Miss Melissa, who remained a minute or two in thought. “Well, my lad,” said she at last, “I must and will know who has had the boldness to write this letter to me; and as your uncle knows, you will bring him here to-morrow, that I may inquire about it; and let him take care that he tells the truth.”
“Yes, miss; I will tell him as soon as he comes home. I hope you are not angry with me, miss; I did not think there was any harm in putting into the book such a nice clean letter as that.”
“No, I am not angry with you; your uncle is more to blame; I shall expect him to-morrow about this time. You may go now.”
Chapter Thirty Two
In which the Tinker makes Love
Joey made his obeisance, and departed as if he was frightened, Miss Melissa watched him: at last she thought, “Tinker or no tinker? that is the question. No tinker, for a cool hundred, as my father would say; for, no tinker’s boy, no tinker; and that is no tinker’s boy. How clever of him to say that the letter was given him by a gentleman! Now I can send to him to interrogate him, and have an interview without any offence to my feelings; and if he is disguised, as I feel confident that he is, I shall soon discover it.”
Miss Melissa Mathews did not sleep that night; and at the time appointed she was sitting on the bench, with all the assumed dignity of a newly-made magistrate. Spikeman and Joey were not long before they made their appearance. Spikeman was particularly clean and neat, although he took care to wear the outward appearance of a tinker; his hands were, by continual washing in hot water, very white, and he had paid every attention to his person, except in wearing his rough and sullied clothes.
“My boy tells me, miss, that you wish to speak to me,” said Spikeman, assuming the air of a vulgar man.
“I did, friend,” said Melissa, after looking at Spikeman for a few minutes; “a letter has been brought here clandestinely, and your boy confesses that he received it from you; now, I wish to know how you came by it.”
“Boy, go away to a distance,” said Spikeman, very angrily; “if you can’t keep one secret, at all events you shall not hear any more.”
Joey retreated, as had been arranged between them.
“Well, madam, or miss (I suppose miss),” said Spikeman, “that letter was written by a gentleman that loves the very ground you tread upon.”
“And he requested it to be delivered to me?”
“He did, miss; and if you knew, as I do, how he loves you, you would not be surprised at his taking so bold a step.”
“I am surprised at your taking so bold a step, tinker, as to send it by your boy.”
“It was a long while before I would venture, miss; but when he had told me what he did, I really could not help doing so; for I pitied him, and so would you, if you knew all.”
“And pray what did he tell you?”
“He told me, miss,” said Spikeman, who had gradually assumed his own manner of speaking, “that he had ever rejected the thoughts of matrimony—that he rose up every morning thanking Heaven that he was free and independent—that he had scorned the idea of ever being captivated with the charms of a woman; but that one day he had by chance passed down this road, and had heard you singing as you were coming down to repose on this bench. Captivated by your voice, curiosity induced him to conceal himself in the copse behind us, and from thence he had a view of your person: nay, miss he told me more, that he had played the eaves-dropper, and heard all your conversation, free and unconstrained as it was from the supposition that you were alone; he heard you express your sentiments and opinions, and finding that there was on this earth what, in his scepticism, he thought never to exist—youth, beauty, talent, principle, and family, all united in one person—he had bowed at the shrine, and had become a silent and unseen worshipper.”
Spikeman stopped speaking.
“Then it appears that this gentleman, as you style him, has been guilty of the ungentlemanly practice of listening to private conversation—no very great recommendation.”
“Such was not his intention at first; he was seduced to it by you. Do not blame him for that—now that I have seen you, I cannot; but, miss, he told me more. He said that he felt that he was unworthy of you, and had not a competence to offer you, even if he could obtain your favour; that he discovered that there was a cause which prevented his gaining an introduction to your family; in fact, that he was hopeless and despairing. He had hovered near you for a long time, for he could not leave the air you breathed; and, at last, that he had resolved to set his life upon the die and stake the hazard. Could I refuse him, miss? He is of an old family, but not wealthy; he is a gentleman by birth and education, and therefore I did not think I was doing so very wrong in giving him the chance, trifling as it might be. I beg your pardon, madam, if I have offended; and any message you may have to deliver to him, harsh as it may be—nay, even if it should be his death—it shall be faithfully and truly delivered.”
“When shall you see him, Master Tinker?” said Melissa, very gravely.
“In a week he will be here, he said, not before.”
“Considering he is so much in love, he takes his time,” replied Melissa. “Well, Master Tinker, you may tell him from me, that I’ve no answer to give him. It is quite ridiculous, as well as highly improper, that I should receive a letter or answer one from a person whom I never saw. I admit his letter to be respectful, or I should have sent a much harsher message.”
“Your commands shall be obeyed, miss; that is, if you cannot be persuaded to see him for one minute.”
“Most certainly not; I see no gentleman who is not received at my father’s house, and properly presented to me. It may be the custom among people in your station of life, Master Tinker, but not in mine; and as for yourself, I recommend you not to attempt to bring another letter.”
“I must request your pardon for my fault, miss; may I ask, after I have seen the poor young gentleman, am I to report to you what takes place?”
“Yes, if it is to assure me that I shall be no more troubled with his addresses.”
“You shall be obeyed, miss,” continued Spikeman; then, changing his tone and air, he said, “I beg your pardon, have you any knives or scissors to grind?”
“No,” replied Melissa, jumping up from her seat, and walking towards the house to conceal her mirth. Shortly afterwards she turned round to look if Spikeman was gone; he had remained near the seat, with his eyes following her footsteps. “I could love that man,” thought Melissa, as she walked on. “What an eye he has, and what eloquence; I shall run away with a tinker I do believe; but it is my destiny. Why does he say a week—a whole week? But how easy to see through his disguise! He had the stamp of a gentleman upon him. Dear me, I wonder how this is to end! I must not tell Araminta yet; she would be fidgeted out of her wits! How foolish of me! I quite forgot to ask the name of this gentleman. I’ll not forget it next time.”
Chapter Thirty Three
Well done Tinker
“It is beyond my hopes, Joey,” said Spikeman, as they went back to the cottage; “she knows well enough that I was pleading for myself, and not for another, and she has said quite as much as my most sanguine wishes could desire; in fact, she has given me permission to come again, and report the result of her message to the non-existent gentleman, which is equal to an assignation. I have no doubt now I shall ultimately succeed, and I must make my preparations; I told her that I should not be able to deliver her message for a week, and she did not like the delay, that was clear; it will all work in my favour; a week’s expectation will ripen the fruit more than daily meetings. I must leave this to-night; but you may as well stay here, for you can be of no use to me.”
“Where are you going, then?”
“First to Dudstone, to take my money out of the bank; I have a good sum, sufficient to carry me on for many months after her marriage, if I do marry her. I shall change my dress at Dudstone, of course, and then start for London, by mail, and fit myself out with a most fashionable wardrobe and etceteras, come down again to Cobhurst, the town we were in the other day, with my portmanteau, and from thence return here in my tinker’s clothes to resume operations. You must not go near her during my absence.”
“Certainly not; shall I go out at all?”
“No, not with the wheel; you might meet her on the road, and she would be putting questions to you.”
That evening Spikeman set off; and was absent for five days, when he again made his appearance early in the morning. Joey had remained almost altogether indoors, and had taken that opportunity of writing to Mary. He wrote on the day after Spikeman’s departure, as it would give ample time for an answer before his return; but Joey received no reply to his letter.
“I am all prepared now, my boy,” said Spikeman, whose appearance was considerably improved by the various little personal arrangements which he had gone through during the time he was in London. “I have my money in my pockets, my portmanteau at Cobhurst, and now it depends upon the rapidity of my success when the day is to come that I make the knife-grinder’s wheel over to you. I will go down now, but without you this time.”
Spikeman set off with his wheel, and soon arrived at the usual place of meeting; Miss Mathews, from the window, had perceived him coming down the road; she waited a quarter of an hour before she made her appearance; had not she had her eyes on the hands of the time-piece, and knew that it was only a quarter of an hour, she could have sworn that it had been two hours at least. Poor girl! she had, during this week, run over every circumstance connected with the meeting at least a thousand times; every word that had been exchanged had been engraven on her memory, and, without her knowledge almost, her heart had imperceptibly received the impression. She walked down, reading her book very attentively, until she arrived at the bench.
“Any knives or scissors to grind, ma’am?” asked Spikeman, respectfully coming forward.
“You here again, Master Tinker! Why, I had quite forgot all about you.”
(Heaven preserve us! how innocent girls will sometimes tell fibs out of modesty.)
“It were well for others, Miss Mathews, if their memory were equally treacherous,” rejoined Spikeman.
“And why so, pray?”
“I speak of the gentleman to whom you sent the message.”
“And what was his reply to you?”
“He acknowledged, Miss Mathews, the madness of his communication to you, of the impossibility of your giving him an answer, and of your admitting him to your presence. He admired the prudence of your conduct, but, unfortunately, his admiration only increased his love. He requested me to say that he will write no more.”
“He has done wisely, and I am satisfied.”
“I would I could say as much for him, Miss Mathews; for it is my opinion, that his very existence is now so bound up with the possession of you, that if he does not succeed he cannot exist.”
“That’s not my fault,” replied Melissa, with her eyes cast down.
“No, it is not. Still, Miss Mathews, when it is considered that this man had abjured, I may say, had almost despised women, it is no small triumph to you, or homage from him, that you have made him feel the power of your sex.”
“It is his just punishment for having despised us.”
“Perhaps so; yet if we were all punished for our misdeeds, as Shakespeare says, who should escape whipping?”
“Pray, Master Tinker, where did you learn to quote Shakespeare?”
“Where I learnt much more. I was not always a travelling tinker.”
“So I presumed before this. And pray how came you to be one?”
“Miss Mathews, if the truth must be told, it arose from an unfortunate attachment.”
“I have read in the olden poets that love would turn a god into a man; but I never heard of its making him a tinker,” replied Melissa, smiling.
“The immortal Jove did not hesitate to conceal his thunderbolts when he deigned to love; and Cupid but too often has recourse to the aid of Proteus to secure success. We have, therefore, no mean warranty.”
“And who was the lady of thy love, good Master Tinker?”
“She was, Miss Mathews, like you in everything. She was as beautiful, as intelligent, as honest, as proud, and, unfortunately, she was, like you, as obdurate, which reminds me of the unfortunate gentleman whose emissary I now am. In his madness he requested me—yes, Miss Mathews, me a poor tinker—to woo you for him—to say to you all that he would have said had he been admitted to your presence—to plead for him—to kneel for him at your feet, and entreat you to have some compassion for one whose only misfortune was to love—whose only fault was to be poor. What could I say, Miss Mathews—what could I reply to a person in his state of desperation? To reason with him, to argue with him, had been useless; I could only soothe him by making such a promise, provided that I was permitted to do it. Tell me, Miss Mathews, have I your permission to make the attempt?”
“First, Mr Tinker, I should wish to know the name of this gentleman.”
“I promised not to mention it, Miss Mathews; but I can evade the promise. I have a book which belongs to him in my pocket, on the inside of which are the arms of his family, with his father’s name underneath them.”
Spikeman presented the book. Melissa read the name, and then laid it on the bench, without saying a word.
“And now, Miss Mathews, as I have shown you that the gentleman has no wish to conceal who he is, may I venture to hope that you will permit me to plead occasionally, when I may see you, in his behalf.”
“I know not what to say, Master Tinker. I consider it a measure fraught with some danger, both to the gentleman and to myself. You have quoted Shakespeare—allow me now to do the same:—
“‘Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the affairs and offices of love,
Therefore all hearts use your own tongues.’
“You observe, Master Tinker, that there is the danger of your pleading for yourself, and not for your client; and there is also the danger of my being insensibly moved to listen to the addresses of a tinker. Now, only reflect upon the awful consequences,” continued Melissa, smiling.
“I pledge you my honour, Miss Mathews, that I will only plead for the person whose name you have read in the book, and that you shall never be humiliated by the importunities of a mender of pots and pans.”
“You pledge the honour of a tinker; what may that be worth?”
“A tinker that has the honour of conversing with Miss Mathews, has an honour that cannot be too highly appreciated.”
“Well, that is very polite for a mender of old kettles; but the schoolmaster is abroad, which, I presume, accounts for such strange anomalies as our present conversation. I must now wish you good morning.”
“When may I have the honour of again presenting myself in behalf of the poor gentleman?”
“I can really make no appointments with tinkers,” replied Melissa; “if you personate that young man, you must be content to wait for days or months to catch a glimpse of the hem of my garment; to bay the moon and bless the stars, and I do not know what else. It is, in short, catch me when you can; and now farewell, good Master Tinker,” replied Melissa, leaving her own book, and taking the one Spikeman had put into her hand, which she carried with her to the house. It was all up with Miss Melissa Mathews, that was clear.
We shall pass over a fortnight, during which Spikeman, at first every other day, and subsequently every day or evening, had a meeting with Melissa, in every one of which he pleaded his cause in the third person. Joey began to be very tired of this affair, as he remained idle during the whole time, when one morning Spikeman told him that he must go down to the meeting-place without the wheel, and tell Miss Mathews his uncle the tinker was ill, and not able to come that evening.
Joey received his instructions, and went down immediately. Miss Mathews was not to be seen, and Joey, to avoid observation, hid himself in the copse, awaiting her arrival. At last she came, accompanied by Araminta, her cousin. As soon as they had taken their seats on the bench, Araminta commenced: “My dear Melissa, I could not speak to you in the house, on account of your father; but Simpson has told me this morning that she thought it her duty to state to me that you have been seen, not only in the day time, but late in the evening, walking and talking with a strange-looking man. I have thought it very odd that you should not have mentioned this mysterious person to me lately; but I do think it most strange that you should have been so imprudent. Now, tell me everything that has happened, or I must really make it known to your father.”
“And have me locked up for months,—that’s very kind of you, Araminta,” replied Melissa.
“But consider what you have been doing, Melissa. Who is this man?”
“A travelling tinker, who brought me a letter from a gentleman, who has been so silly as to fall in love with me.”
“And what steps have you taken, cousin?”
“Positively refused to receive a letter, or to see the gentleman.”
“Then why does the man come again?”
“To know if we have any knives or scissors to grind.”
“Come, come, Melissa, this is ridiculous. All the servants are talking about it; and you know how servants talk. Why do you continue to see this fellow?”
“Because he amuses me, and it is so stupid of him.”
“If that is your only reason, you can have no objection to see him no more, now that scandal is abroad. Will you promise me that you will not? Recollect, dear Melissa, how imprudent and how unmaidenly it is.”
“Why, you don’t think that I am going to elope with a tinker, do you, cousin?”
“I should think not; nevertheless, a tinker is no companion for Miss Mathews, dear cousin. Melissa, you have been most imprudent. How far you have told me the truth I know not; but this I must tell you, if you do not promise me to give up this disgraceful acquaintance, I will immediately acquaint my uncle.”
“I will not be forced into any promise, Araminta,” replied Melissa, indignantly.
“Well, then, I will not hurry you into it. I will give you forty-eight hours to reply, and if by that time your own good sense does not point out your indiscretion, I certainly will make it known to your father; that is decided.” So saying. Araminta rose from the bench and walked towards the house.
“Eight-and-forty hours,” said Melissa, thoughtfully; “it must be decided by that time.”
Joey, who had wit enough to perceive how matters stood, made up his mind not to deliver his message. He knew that Spikeman was well, and presumed that his staying away was to make Miss Mathews more impatient to see him. Melissa remained on the bench in deep thought; at last Joey went up to her.
“You here, my boy! what have you come for?” said Melissa.
“I was strolling this way, madam.”
“Come here; I want you to tell me the truth; indeed, it is useless to attempt to deceive me. Is that person your uncle?”
“No, miss, he is not.”
“I knew that. Is he not the person who wrote the letter, and a gentleman in disguise? Answer me that question, and then I have a message to him which will make him happy.”
“He is a gentleman, miss.”
“And his name is Spikeman, is it not?”
“Yes, miss, it is.”
“Will he be here this evening? This is no time for trifling.”
“If you want him, miss, I am sure he will.”
“Tell him to be sure and come, and not in disguise,” said Melissa, bursting into tears. “That’s no use, my die is cast,” continued she, talking to herself. Joey remained by her side until she removed her hands from her face. “Why do you wait?”
“At what hour, miss, shall he come?” said Joey.
“As soon as it is dusk. Leave me, boy, and do not forget.”
Joey hastened to Spikeman, and narrated what he had seen and heard, with the message of Melissa.
“My dear boy, you have helped me to happiness,” said Spikeman. “She shed tears, did she? Poor thing! I trust they will be the last she shall shed. I must be off to Cobhurst at once. Meet me at dark at the copse, for I shall want to speak to you.”
Spikeman set off for the town as fast as he could, with his bundle on his head. When half way he went into a field and changed his clothes, discarding his tinker’s dress for ever, throwing it into a ditch for the benefit of the finder. He then went into the town to his rooms, dressed himself in a fashionable suit, arranged his portmanteau, and ordered a chaise to be ready at the door at a certain time, so as to arrive at the village before dusk. After he had passed through the village, he ordered the postboy to stop about fifty yards on the other side of the copse, and getting out desired him to remain till he returned. Joey was already there, and soon afterwards Miss M made her appearance, coming down the walk in a hurried manner, in her shawl and bonnet. As soon as she gained the bench, Spikeman was at her feet; he told her he knew what had passed between her and her cousin; that he could not, would not part with her—he now came without disguise to repeat what he had so often said to her, that he loved and adored her, and that his life should be devoted to make her happy.
Melissa wept, entreated, refused, and half consented; Spikeman led her away from the bench towards the road, she still refusing, yet still advancing, until they came to the door of the chaise. Joey let down the steps; Melissa, half fainting and half resisting, was put in; Spikeman followed, and the door was closed by Joey.
“Stop a moment, boy,” said Spikeman. “Here, Joey, take this.”
As Spikeman put a packet into our hero’s hand, Melissa clasped her hands and cried, “Yes—yes! stop, do stop, and let me out; I cannot go, indeed I cannot.”
“There’s lights coming down the gravel walk,” said Joey; “they are running fast.”
“Drive on, boy, as fast as you can,” said Spikeman.
“Oh, yes! drive on,” cried Melissa, sinking into her lover’s arms.
Off went the chaise, leaving Joey on the road with the packet in his hand; our hero turned round and perceived the lights close to him, and, not exactly wishing to be interrogated, he set off as fast as he could, and never checked his speed until he arrived at the cottage where he and Spikeman had taken up their quarters.