“That’s Castle Connell to the right, sir,” said Patsy after a long interval broken only by the eloquence of Fly-by-night’s hoofs. “Six miles and a quarter, as the crow flies, from Glen Druid. We’re near half-way.”
“Patsy reminds me of those advertisements one sees on the railway lines,” whispered Violet, snuggling up close to Mr Fanshawe. “You know the ones, Beecham’s pills, twenty miles to London.”
“Are you warm, dear?” asked her companion.
“Quite,” she murmured, drawing the mole-skin cloak more tightly around her.
The great idle moon lolling over the hills cast Fly-by-night’s shadow before her. She had warmed to her work now, and was going like a dream under the hand of a master and lover of horses.
“Oh! look at the moon,” sighed Violet, turning for a moment in her seat and looking backwards. “I wish this could last forever.”
“I say,” cried out Dicky, heedless of this wish, which the gods no doubt had overheard, “the cart’s going a bit rocky. Anything wrong with it, do you think, Patsy?”
“I hope not, sir,” said Patsy. “I heard Dan, the coachman say something to Larry about wan of the ‘hubs.’”
“What did he say?” asked Mr Fanshawe.
“He was going across the yard wid a bucket of water, and Larry was clanin’ the cart, and Dan, he says, ‘Larry,’ says he, ‘what are you doin’?’ ‘Clanin’ the cart,’ says Larry. ‘And what are you clanin’ it for?’ he asks. ‘To make it tidy,’ says Larry. ‘Sure, get off to some other job,’ says Dan. ‘The ould cart has to go to the coach-builders for there’s a crack in that “hub” you could stick your nose in; and where’s your eyes? says he; ‘get off and be doin’ your harness, and let the coach-builders clane the trap if it’s worth clanin’, for it’s my opinion, he says, ‘it ought to have been condimned long ago. Lighting fires is all it’s fit for.’”