Mr. Sandboys, far from pleased at the man’s manner, modified his question, and requested to know how many miles he called it to London.
“Two hundred an’ feafty, if ’t be an inch,” was the laconic reply.
Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys both heard the answer, and stared transfixed, as if electrified.
Then came the explanation.
It was, as Mrs. Sandboys had dreaded, their boxes, trunks, and bags had gone in the direction of Holborn Hill, London, while they, poor unhappy mortals, had been carried some fifty miles out of their road to Holborn Hill, Cumberland.
There was, moreover, a matter of two pounds to pay for the provoking journey—but it was useless complaining: besides, as Mr. Sandboys reminded them, they had all come out to enjoy themselves, and, therefore, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of their position, he trusted they would one and all put a smiling face on the matter.
This, of course, was easier said than done, for on inquiry it was found that they must remain in that quarter some few hours before any train would arrive by which they could get back to Carlisle—the way they had booked themselves to London.
Having, however, found out where they could get some eggs and bacon cooked, they retired to dine away the time, and were soon so well pleased with their cheer, that they were able to laugh at their own mishap.
Mrs. Sandboys, nevertheless, was too intent upon the probable fate of her luggage to see much to laugh at in the mistake, while Elcy—whose pet Italian greyhound had been locked up in the canine department of the London train—could think of nothing but her lost darling. Her whole study of late had been to fatten the miserable, shivering, scraggy, half-starved looking little animal upon which she had placed her affections. All her benevolence, however, had been wasted on the wretched creature. She had put it into flannel jackets, but still, to her great annoyance, it was perpetually trembling, like a “blancmange” or a Lascar beggar. She fed it on the most nourishing food, for it cut her to the heart to see the dear look such a mere “bag of bones,” but the fat of the land was utterly thrown away on it. It was impossible by any means to give it the least tendency to corpulence. Despite all her efforts, its nose continued as sharp as a bayonet—its legs had no more flesh on them than a bird’s—its ribs were as visible as if its body were built out of wicker-work—while its tail was jointed and curled like the flexible tube to a cheap imitation of hookah.
Still there was one consolation: “Psyche” could not well be thinner—had it been a martyr to tight lacing, its waist could not have been smaller; but what effect starvation might have upon such an animal, was more than poor Elcy dare trust herself to conjecture. She felt convinced in her own mind that the skeleton of the poor dear dumb thing would be all that she should find of it when she reached the Metropolis.