"I knew it," says miss, beaming; and at that the wind took us again, and the stage jolted on her creaking wheels, sending miss into my arms, and the old lady upon the thin black fellow.
Miss got herself back with my assistance, blushing ripe and red, and the old lady cries,—
"Geoffrey, my smelling-salts! Harringay, tuck my skirts down." At which the popinjay began fumbling in his pockets, and with a sulky air stooped to do as he was bid. T'other man feigned to go on reading, but it was too dark now to see print.
"I have no taste for these common stages," says Harringay, presently, in a fluting voice of affectation. "If I had my way, I would travel by private coach."
"Maybe," said I, "you cannot stride a horse."
"Indeed," said he, loftily, "I am quite accustomed to it."
"'Tis the only way of progression," I said. "A stout nag and a pair of barkers."
"Ah," said the old man admiringly, "you soldiers see strange things."
"I'll warrant, yes," said I. "I could tell you that which would make your hair stand."