“Oie, oie, yon’s t’ Whoit Coo,” assented the porter.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Taw mulls, maister.”
“Can you go there and bring us a carriage of some sort? I will pay you well for your trouble,” said Mr. Force.
“Naw, maister. Oi’ mawn’t leave t’ stution.”
“Uncle!” exclaimed Le, “I can go and bring you a carriage in no time. You take Wynnette into the house and wait for me.”
And without more ado Le ran across the track and strode off across the moor.
Mr. Force took Wynnette into the waiting room of the little wayside station, where they sat down.
There was no carpet on the floor, no paper on the walls, no shades at the windows, but against the walls were rows of wooden benches, and on them large posters of railway and steamboat routes, hotels, watering places, and so forth, and one picture of the winner of the last Derby.
They had scarcely time to get tired of waiting before Le came back with the most wretched-looking turnout that ever tried to be a useful conveyance.