For one second Mrs. Sprigg relented, being unable to pass anything by that did not cost. “No, indeed,” then she cried decidedly; “it’ll cost over there to Eliza’s for eatin’, an’ Martha’s got to do th’ work to home. Go right straight back!” She whipped her skirts about her feet and skipped into the stage-coach.
“Well, there, ye see, I can’t take ye; your Ma won’t let me,” said Mr. Tisbett, apologetically, to the little girl, who stood twisting her small red hands together and wistfully regarding his face.
“Oh, let her come, do let her come,” begged Joel, leaning forward on his high seat at the imminent risk of falling off on his nose; Davie crowding up close to his shoulder trying to see, too, and crying, “Please, Mr. Tisbett, let her come—”
“Can’t,” said Mr. Tisbett, swinging himself up to his seat; “that cantankerous old woman won’t let me—” the last under his breath.
Martha, seeing her last hope which had flamed high at Mr. Tisbett’s words, disappear, gave a loud scream of disappointment and flung herself face downward on the grass. The stage-driver, just picking up the old leather reins, paused and looked over his shoulder. “See here, Marthy, don’t cry. I’ll take ye some other day.”
Mrs. Sprigg poked her head, with its green veil tied carefully over her Sunday bonnet, out of the window to listen greedily. Martha sat up on the grass suddenly to brush away the tears.
“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You be a good girl an’ run home now, an’ I’ll come for ye some other day,” and he whirled back in his seat. “G’lang!” And Mrs. Sprigg was picking herself back from the opposite leather-covered seat and straightening her bonnet after the jerk of the old coach as the horses sprang off.
“Oh, we can’t leave her,” screamed Joel, at the end of the seat, trying to see Martha; little Davie in just as much distress, huddled up in the middle.
“Look out—you set still,” roared Mr. Tisbett at Joel. “If you don’t, I’ll put you off, an’ you won’t go neither,” which had such good effect that Joel crowded up closely to Davie. “Oh, I will sit still, I will, Mr. Tisbett,” as they rumbled off, trying to make up for lost time on the way to the store where they were to pick up the other passengers and the parcels.
When this place was reached, there was a little detention to allow an old gentleman with crutches to get helped in and settled comfortably by his daughter, who was the only other passenger. And then their trunk, a small black leather one, was swung on behind, and the various parcels (for Mr. Tisbett, of course, carried the express to the different families between Badgertown and Cherryville) were packed in, and with a “good-by, Joel and David,” from Mr. Atkins, who came out on the steps to see them off, away they went again, not to stop except once or twice to give the horses a breathing spell, until they drew up at Cherryville Centre.