“Get in the trap,” he said. “Get in the trap, man. What’s the use for two of ye to ride the mail horses, and get your death o’ cold? Get in the trap!”
“Of course I’ll give you a lift,” said Hugh. “Jump in, and let us get away before you all get colds. What will you do about the coach and the luggage, Pat?”
“I’ll borry them two old draught horses from Martin Donohoe, and they’ll haul it out. Bedad, some o’ that luggage ’ll be washed down to the Murrumbidgee before night; but the most of it is strapped on. Push along, Mr. Gordon, and tell Martin I’m coming.”
With some reluctance Blake got into the waggonette; before long they were at Donohoe’s Hotel, and Mary Grant was soon rigged out in an outfit from Mrs. Donohoe’s best clothes—a pale-green linsey bodice and purple skirt—everything, including Mrs. Donohoe’s boots, being about four sizes too big. But she looked by no means an unattractive little figure, with her brown eyes and healthy colour showing above the shapeless garments.
She came into the little sitting-room laughing at the figure she cut, sat down, and drank scalding tea, and ate Mrs. Donohoe’s cakes, while talking with Father Kelly and Blake over the great adventure.
When she was ready to start she got into the waggonette alongside Hugh, and waved good-bye to the priest and Blake and Mrs. Donohoe, as though they were old friends. She had had her first touch of colonial experience.
CHAPTER VII.
MR. BLAKE’S RELATIONS.
As soon as Hugh got his team swinging along at a steady ten miles an hour on the mountain road, Mary Grant opened the conversation.
“Mr. Gordon,” she said, “who is Mr. Blake?”
“He’s the lawyer from Tarrong.”