"Well--considerin' I've lived in these parts five-an'-forty year, man
and boy, I reckon I _ought_ to be sure."
The reproof was just, and I apologised. Nevertheless Parkyn was not the
name I wanted. What was the name? And why did I want it? I had not
the least idea. For the next mile I continued to hunt my brain for the
right combination of syllables. I only knew that somewhere, now at the
back of my head, now on my tongue-tip, there hung a word I desired to
utter, but could not. I was still searching for it when the gig climbed
over the summit of a gentle rise, and the "Indian Queens" hove in sight.
It is not usual for a village to lie a full mile beyond its inn: yet I
never doubted this must be the case with Pitt's Scawens. Nor was I in
the least surprised by the appearance of this lonely tavern, with the
black peat-pool behind it and the high-road in front, along which its
end windows stare for miles, as if on the look-out for the ghosts of
departed coaches full of disembodied travellers for the Land's End.
I knew the sign-board over the porch: I knew--though now in the twilight
it was impossible to distinguish colours--that upon either side of it
was painted an Indian Queen in a scarlet turban and blue robe, taking
two black children with scarlet parasols to see a blue palm-tree.
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