“Oh, please, Mr. Man, take us in your wagon!” begged Elyot quickly, and not thinking it best to answer any questions, “I’ll bring her;” and he ran over to Barby. “Sit up now, you must; there’s a good, kind man going to carry us in his wagon,” while the farmer rested his hands, with the ends of the old leather reins, in his lap, and scratched his shock of light hair in perplexity.
“We’re coming,” cried Elyot at last, tugging Barby along. Her eyes were half closed, and she protested every inch of the way, but he got her up to the side of the wagon.
“Land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed the farmer, jumping out, “I’ll help ye; there ye be.” He picked Barby up, and lifted her over among the grain-bags. “Curl up, now—she can sleep easy as a kitten,” he said. Elyot had already clambered up to the driver’s seat in great satisfaction; so presently they were off, rattling down the turnpike.
“Wher’ ye goin’ to in Hingham?” at last asked the farmer; “mebbe now ye want to be dropped this side o’ th’ town?”
“We don’t want to be dropped at all,” cried Elyot, hanging to the wagon-seat with both hands. “Oh, please don’t drop us, Mr. Man!” He glanced over his shoulder at Barby, peacefully asleep, her head on a grain-bag.
“I mean, where d’ye want to be let out? Mebbe this side o’ th’ town,” explained the farmer; “or shall I carry ye to Hingham?”
“Oh, we don’t want to go to Hingham at all,” said Elyot, hanging on for dear life.
The old farmer pulled up so suddenly that despite his care, Elyot nearly fell out. “Don’t want to go to Hingham!” he roared; “what did ye ask me to take ye there for, then?”
“Oh, I didn’t!” said Elyot stoutly; “I asked you to take us in your wagon. And you’re so good, thank you, Mr. Man.”
“Well, an’ that’s the same thing; for my wagon’s goin’ to Hingham; that’s where I live. Where in thunder do you want to go, you an’ th’ girl?” he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to Barby.