Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Yes. "And now, I've one further request," faltered Jack; "though I scarcely know how to make it. You must wait till supper's over. Do you hear me, Sir? Won't you stir!" "Not a step," replied Langley, gruffly.
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