“Oh!” I replied, rather lamely, “because, of course, everything about them seems so strange and sad!”
There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone assumed by his “fare,” was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent instincts.
“Dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid there’s bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?” he went on, to Moore, evidently anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.
“You don’t need to fall far to sprain your ankle,” he remarked quickly, “and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is quite enough sometimes.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do, considering our complicated bones and joints.”
The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination, evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue accordingly.
“Young bones ain’t so hard to mend as old ones,” he said philosophically, as he closed the door; “and where shall I drive to if you please?”
“To Mr Wynyard’s—the Manor-house,” I answered promptly, and off we set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching eliminated from our conductor’s mind.