“Oh, and ’ave ’ee?” enquired the carrier, much interested.
“Ees, a fartnight ago.”
“Well, ’tis funny too; but I d’ ’low I must obey arders. Hand over that parcel, farmer. I did ought to be gettin’ on; we’m a bit late as it is.”
Mr Bolt handed him the parcel, and the carrier whipped up his horse; but the van had hardly rattled on a few yards before its driver was again hailed.
“Hi! bide a bit!”
“Well?” said the carrier, turning.
Mr Bolt came alongside, red and breathless.
“Ye mid just ask the folks at the Black who they expects to call for that there parcel,” he said. “I be a bit puzzled in my mind about it.”
“I will,” agreed the other; “but let me go now, good man, else I’ll never get to Sturminster to ask about no parcels at all.”
Mr Bolt was in a stern and silent mood during the whole of that day, and after tea, instead of settling down to his pipe with little Abel in his chair beside him, strolled out Branston way to meet the carrier. He had not long to wait before he heard the familiar creaking and rattling of the rickety van, and presently the solitary light of its swinging lantern came bobbing along between the hedges. The farmer repeated the procedure of the morning:—