“I doan’t allow no passergers to sit alongside o’ me.”
“You’ll have to put up with it for once,” returned Barrant curtly, in no way softened by the odour of Mr. Crows’ breath.
As this was a reply which no resident of St. Fair would have dared to make, Mr. Crows bent a muddled glance on his fare, and by a concentrated effort recalled the face of the man who had given him ten shillings on the previous night. He decided to pocket the present indignity in the hope of another tip.
“Aw right,” he said, with unwonted amiability, “yewer can stay where yew are—for wance.”
He applied himself to driving the wagonette. Sobriety was not an essential of the feat. The horse knew the way, drew clear of the town without accident, and jogged into the long winding road which stretched across the moors. The shadows deepened into night, and Mr. Crows lighted a solitary lamp in the front of his vehicle.
“Aren’t you going to light up inside?” asked Barrant, when the lamp was flickering faintly.
“No,” replied Mr. Crows shortly. “It don’t pay. Let ‘em set in the dark.”
“Not enough passengers, eh?”
“Moren enough fat old wommen on the out journey,” declared Mr. Crows passionately. “That’s because it’s all up-hill. But they walk in downhill to save a shellen. I know them.” He brooded darkly. “It’s all part of the plan,” he went on. Then, as though feeling that this latter statement, in itself, erred on the side of vagueness, he added—“to worrit a man.”
“How many passengers did you have on your last journey in, last night?”