“Yes, sir; ’bout six miles.”
As Oldroyd spoke, he was busily thrusting a case or two and some lint into his pockets, and filling a couple of small phials; after which he buttoned up his coat and put out his lamp.
“Now, then, my man, I must just call at the mill, and then I’m ready for you.”
“Going to walk, sir?” said the messenger.
“No; I’m going to get the miller’s pony. I’m sorry I can’t offer to drive you back.”
“Never you mind about me, sir. I can get over the ground,” said the man; and following Oldroyd down the lane, he stopped with him at a long low cottage, close beside the dammed up river, where a couple of sharp raps caused a casement to be opened.
“You, doctor?” said a voice; and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, there was the word “catch,” and Oldroyd cleverly caught a key attached by a string to a very large horse-chestnut. Then the casement was closed, and the two went round to the stable, where a stout pony’s slumbers were interrupted, and the patient beast saddled and bridled and led out, ready to spread its four legs as far apart as possible when the young doctor mounted as if afraid of being pulled over by his weight.
“Now, then,” said Oldroyd, relocking the door, “forward as fast as you like. When you’re tired I’ll get down.”
“Oh, I sha’n’t be tired,” said the man, quietly; and he started off at a regular dog-trot. “That there pony’ll go anywhere, sir, so I shall take the short cuts.”
“Mind the boggy bits, my man.”