It was a long cart covered with faded and torn black leather, and furnished with wooden seats without cushions. Its harness was worn and patched. But there was one comfort in the whole equipage—the horse was in very good condition. It was a strong draught horse.
“I shall not have to cry for cruelty to animals, at any rate,” said Wynnette, as her father helped her up into a seat.
“How far is it to Angleton?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.
“Sux mulls, surr,” answered the man. “Sux mulls, if yur tek it cross t’ moor, but tun, ’round b’ t’ rood.”
“Is it very rough across the moor?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Muddlin’, maister,” replied the man.
“Go across the moor,” said the gentleman, as he stepped up into the carriage.
Le followed him. The horse started and trudged on, jolting them over the irons on the railway track and striking into the very worst country road they had ever known.
Yes. It was rough riding across that moor, sitting on hard benches, in a cart without springs, and drawn by a strong, hard-trotting horse.
Our travelers were jolted until their bones were sore before they reached the first stopping place.