She chirruped to the horse and it plodded on, Sol’s tall figure keeping pace with it. Presently he rested one hand upon the shaft, the lantern-light revealing how strong it was, and brown.
“My name’s Solomon Bowditch,” he remarked.
“Oh, an’ be it?” she returned faintly.
“E-es. What be yours?”
“Sally Roberts.”
“Tranter Sally,” remarked Sol with a laugh.
“They call me that sometimes,” she conceded. “Here we be at the top of the hill, Mr Bowditch. I be goin’ to make en trot now.”
“I can trot too,” said Sol, and indeed his long legs carried him along at a pace that shamed the shambling efforts of poor Diamond.
Sally protested, scolded, and finally laughed: Sol took no notice of any of these modes of procedure, his tall figure jogged along at the same steady pace, just a little in front of the hood, so that the light fell full on his honest good-humoured face, and broad-shouldered frame. The cart went bumping and jolting over the uneven down track, now threading its way between patches of firs, now rounding a copse of stunted trees. At last a few twinkling lights came in view, shining fitfully from a not far distant hollow.
“That’s our place,” said Sally, pointing with her whip.