She was glad to escape into the kitchen with her jug. Will moved towards the front door.
“You come and see the coach, Mr. Quarles,” he persisted, “before it’s too dark.”
“Dang your coach!” But the imprecation was mild and the ancient shuffled to the door and surveyed the imposing equipage complete from box to boot, with its glossy sable steeds. Will, swelling with renewed pride, and mentally comparing it with the canvas-rotted, lumbering little carrier’s cart and the aged animal on its last legs, awaited with complacency the rapturous exclamations of the old connoisseur.
But they did not come. “Ay, quite soizable, not such a bad coach, rayther top-heavy. Where’s the leaders?”
“You don’t want more than two horses on these roads. Ain’t there plenty o’ pair-horse coaches? Besides it don’t set up for a coach exactly. I’m a carrier mainly!”
The old man winced at the word.
“You’ve called her the Flynt Flyer,” he said, peering at the painted legend.
“And fly she does!” said Will, recovering his complacency. “There’s life and spirit for you!” he added, as the horses pawed and tossed their heads.
“More like an adder biting their heels!” said Daniel balefully. “But Oi thought Oi heerd they was black!”
Will was outraged. “The Devil himself couldn’t be blacker!”