“Then let’s go on to Barnstaple, and write to him from there.”
“To be sure!” cried Bigley, jumping at the compromise. “Come along.”
“No, I said; it will not do. I’ve left his letter behind, and I don’t know where to write.”
“Oh, Sep!” cried Bigley reproachfully. “Then, we must go back.”
We stood looking at each other just as we had made a fresh start, and the weariness we were beginning to feel brought with it a strange low-spirited sensation that was depressing in the extreme.
“Come along,” I said. “Let’s get back, or we shall lose another day before we can get off a letter.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bigley; “there’s the half-way house not a quarter of a mile away. We’ll go on there and have some bread and cheese and cider, then we shall be able to walk back more quickly.”
It did not take us long to reach the pretty little road-side ale-house, where the first thing I saw was the doctor’s pony tied up to the gate by the rough stable or shed.
“Some one ill?” I said. “Shall we tell Doctor Chowne what we were going to do?”
I had hardly spoken these words when my father appeared at the door.