“Ain’t seen that for days,” said the Gaffer. “Where’s that been?”
“I don’t know,” she lied, glad of Nip’s guilty air, for to explain would reveal the coach. “On the razzle-dazzle, I suppose.”
After supper, she remembered a box must be put in the ante-room that had been left with her to be called for. It was stupid not to have brought it in at once, ere the cart had been put in its shed—as stupid as her pot-swapping. In a sudden fear that if unremoved to-night she would carry it off to Farmer Gale’s wedding just when the owner would be coming for it, she asked her grandfather to lend a hand with it. It was an unfortunate request, for as the still sinewy veteran was dragging his end over the sill, he said weirdly: “There ain’t no man in Bradmarsh more lugsome’n that. Who wants your new-fangled coach?”
“What coach?” murmured Jinny, half puzzled, half apprehensive.
“The funeral coach.” He stood still. “Where else ’ould a coffin goo?”
“Rubbish, Gran’fer. There’s no funeral coach.” Her little silvery voice rang out. “Heave away, my Johnny. Come along, Gran’fer, I’ve got to rub down Methusalem—you’ll be too tired now.”
“No funeral coach?” he repeated slowly, loosing the box.
“You’ve been dreaming, Gran’fer.”
“But the two black horses——”
Her heart beat like a criminal’s on the eve of detection. “Nightmares!” she laughed. “What did I say?”