“And did you send that letter, after all?” Willy said, in an unconcerned way.
“Yes,” I answered; “you know I always write to Aunt Jane on Friday.”
“Then you mean to say you are really going back?”
I nodded.
“Well, I suppose you know best,” he said coldly.
Alaska put her foot on a stone, and stumbled slightly.
“Hold up, you confounded fool!” he said, chucking up her head roughly, and digging his spurs in.
The mare reared and plunged, and to steady her we broke into a trot, which brought us into the crooked, crowded streets of Moycullen.
It was market-day, and the carts that had come in with their loads of butter, turf, fowls, and old women blocked our way in every direction. I remained on my horse’s back while Willy went off about his business, and for the next half-hour I only caught glimpses of him, doubling round the immovable groups of talkers, and eluding the beggars with practised skill as he dived in and out of the little shops. Willy’s satisfaction and confidence in the warehouses of Moycullen, and the amount of shopping which he contrived to do there, had always been a matter of fresh surprise to me.
Beggars pestered me; little boys exasperated me by offers to hold Blackthorn, regardless of the fact that I was on his back; and women clustered round me on the pavement and discussed my lineage and appearance, but I was too dispirited to be much amused by their comments. The glow of my gallop had faded out; I felt cold and tired, and thought that Willy had never before been so long over his shopping.