The angel face of Tinker
had never looked more angelic to human being than it looked to the
weary money-lender. He had never seen him before; therefore, he had no
reason to suppose that that face was not the index to an angelic
nature. Unfortunately, Tinker knew by sight most of his father's
friends and enemies, and at the first glance he recognised the squat
figure, the thick, square nose, and muddy complexion of Mr. Robert
Lambert.
"My lad," said the money-lender, failing to perceive that he was
addressing one of the worst kind of man in all romance, "I've lost my
way. I want to get to the house of Tullispaith. Which is the road?"
"There is no road; and it's eight miles away," said Tinker, knitting
his brow into the gloomy and forbidding frown of a robber baron.
"Eight miles! What am I to do? Where is the nearest place I can get a
conveyance?"
"It would be a twenty-mile drive if you got a cart, and there's no cart
nearer than Ardrochan, and that's six miles away."
"Well, then, a horse, or a pony, and a guide?"
"You could get a pony at Hamish Beg's; and one of his sons could guide
you."
"Where does he live? How can I get there?"
"Three miles the other side of that tower.
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