And it must be admitted that Mr. Gerzson's mode of travelling on this
occasion was decidedly eccentric. On reaching a village he would tell
his coachman where to go next but he never told him more than one stage
in advance. Every morning he would consume one of his rolls and wash it
down with the lukewarm brackish water of the Maros--and bitter enough he
found the taste of it too. He never quitted the carriage for more than
two or three minutes at a time, and he presented his pistols point blank
at everyone who approached him with inquisitive questions.
Only twice during the night did he allow the horses an hour or two of
rest--and then away over stock and stone again.
The coachman, who was unaccustomed to such queer ways, presently shook
his head every time he received orders to go on further, but by dawn of
day he had had about enough of the job.
"Your honour," said he, "are we going to stop at all? It would do the
horses no harm if they had a little rest."
"What's that to you, you rascal, eh?" roared Mr. Gerzson, "I suppose
you're sleepy, you lazy good-for-nothing? Off the box then, you hound,
you! I'll drive the horses myself, you gallows-bird!"
The old fellow, who had been in the service of the family for twenty
years and had never had so many insulting epithets thrown at his head
before explained that he did not speak for himself but for the horses.
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