A little way from the entrance, drawn up opposite to the stable-yard, stood a long, clumsy wagonette-brake with coats and green-carpet cricket-bags lying about its seats. Two horses were at the pole, seriously bowed over their nose-bags. A swingle-tree hung at the pole's end, and a second pair of reins was fast to the driver's seat, the four cheek-buckles lying crossed over the wheeler's backs.
"Fower-in-hand, and leaders in staable! Sick, likely, or more gradely stuff," said Dick, musing aloud.
Amaryllis, whose eyes were on the signboard, started as if a stranger had spoken at her side. She looked quickly in his face, and found it so altered in expression that she knew the words had come from his lips.
"Oh, Dick!" she whispered. "You're wonderful. But whatever shall I do? If I open my mouth, I shall give us away."
"Howd tha mouth shut, then, 'Minta, lass," he said. Then, lowering his tone, he added in his own language: "I'll account for you. Don't forget your name's Araminta. You've been ill, and the doctor's ordered open-air treatment."
As they reached the threshold, the roar of Millsborough dialect came to them through the windows of the bar-parlour.
Dick pointed to the bench by the door.
"Set there, lass, and Ah'll fetch t' grub," he said aloud. "'Tis bad air for 'ee in tap-room."
As if the world were his, he swung into the bar, where he found two yokels listening to the half-drunken lamentations of a middle-aged, plum-cheeked fellow in a shabby blue livery coatee with shabbier gilt buttons; and even while he was giving his order for a glass of mild, and a bit of bread and cheese on plate for daughter—who'd been main sick, and would likely throw her stomach if she sat in tap-room, for doctor said for her open-air treatment was best medicine—he was listening patiently to the man he guessed to be the driver of the cricketers' brake.
He took the glass and plate and a pat on the shoulder to 'Minta.