“Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.”
“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” said the female, coming up almost breathless with fatigue.
“Heavy! What are yer talking about?—what are yer made for?” rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. “Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain’t enough to tire any body’s patience out, I don’t know what is.”
“Is it much farther?” asked the woman, resting herself on a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.
“Much farther! Yer as good as there,” said the long-legged tramper pointing out before him. “Look there—those are the lights of London.”
“They’re a good two mile off at least,” said the woman despondingly.
“Never mind whether they’re two mile off or twenty,” said Noah Claypole, for he it was; “but get up and come on, or I’ll kick yer; and so I give yer notice.”
As Noah’s red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark and trudged onwards by his side.
“Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?” she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.