“Let me have the whip,” cried Johnny, wriggling for the possession of that article.
“No, you don’t!” declared Mr. Tisbett. “Whoa, there!” this to his horses. “Now, that Mis’ Lambert wants to go to th’ deepo, I’ll be bound,” pulling up to a big white house a little back from the road. “Yis’m,” as a handkerchief waved frantically out of one of the small-paned windows.
“I want to go to Hubbardville, Mr. Tisbett,” said the woman who held it.
“Well, if you’re a-goin’ to Hubbardville,” observed the stage-driver, whipping out a big silver watch, “I take it you better be steppin’ lively, Mis’ Lambert. I’m on my way to th’ deepo now, an’ I don’t come back this way.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, darting away from the window; and in a minute or two she came out, catching her paisley shawl by its two ends to tuck them under her arm, while she endeavored to pin her bonnet-strings.
“Susan,” she called over her shoulder to some one in the entry, “I’ve forgot my bag.” Then she took out one of the pins which she had hastily put into her mouth for just such emergencies, and pinned up the long ribbons that might be said to have seen better days.
“I wish folks would be ready when they hail th’ stage,” observed Mr. Tisbett to Johnny, not careful in the least to lower his voice from his ordinary tone. Then he roared out, “Come, Mis’ Lambert, I shall have to go without you.”
“I’m coming!” said Mrs. Lambert quickly.
“Your bonnet ain’t on straight, ma,” said Susan, coming with the bag to the doorstone.
Mrs. Lambert put up both hands, and twitched it the wrong way, thereby letting the paisley shawl slip to the ground.