“He must mean Abbeyfield,” said the toothless crone, raising her head from where she was lying on a bundle of old sacks.
She had a pipe in her mouth, and as she spoke she puffed out a volume of smoke.
“Now, to think of it,” said Flavia. “Is that the house, the pretty house, you’re in? We go past Abbeyfield: we’ll put you out when we get there; it’ll save a lot of time.”
“But,” said Ralph, very nearly crying, and very nearly losing his manhood, “I’s not to wait in that house; I’s to wait in the house of a doctor—in a hot drawing-room. Oh, please, let me out!”
“There,” said Flavia, “we’re off at last. Just once across the field, little master, and then back you’ll go, basket and all.”
It was exciting; with whoops, and shouts, and cracking of several whips, the house on wheels began slowly to go forward. Gipsy men ran by it, and gipsy children shouted at each side of it, and the mongrel dogs all barked in chorus; and one little boy sat very still inside with a sad, beating heart.
What was going to happen? It was lovely to be in a house that moved, and Flavia was very pretty. But, somehow, he was very nearly losing his manhood, and he did think that in another minute tears must rush to his eyes.