“I’m afraid it’s my boot rubs my foot, sir,” I said, wincing.
“Tut, tut!” he exclaimed. “This won’t do. Sit down and have a rest, and let’s think, Tony.”
“Oh, I can go on yet, sir,” I said hastily.
“No, no; sit down, my boy, sit down,” he said; and I sat down upon a bank. “I can’t carry you, Tony,” he said kindly. “I could manage you for a couple of miles or so; I don’t think I could get you right up home. We are unlucky to-night, and—there is something turning up.”
“On ahead, Tony. Yonder is a roadside inn, with a couple of hay-carts. Come along, my lad, and well see if one of them cannot be turned into a chariot to convey us to London Town.”
I limped on beside him to where the hay-carts were standing by a water-trough at the roadside, the horses tossing their nose-bags so as to get at the oats at the bottom, and the carters just coming out of the public-house.
“Can you give us a lift on to London?” said Mr Hallett. “This boy has turned lame.”
“What’ll you stand?” said the man heavily.
“A couple of pints,” said Mr Hallett.
“All right; up you get,” said the man. “You must lie atop o’ the hay. I only goes to Whitechapel, you know.”