He drew up within a dozen yards of the blazing toll-house.
“Where are ye for?” the shape of a woman demanded, laying a man’s hand on the bridle.
“Horton—Sedbergh—Carlisle. For God’s sake, fling yon yett back!”
“Wi’ whose leave?”
“Th’ leave o’ Rebecca—aught—oppen th’ yett! ’Tisna th’ likes o’ us ye want to keep. We’re poorer nor ye, an’ followed. Fling th’ yett back, an’ let’s be on!”
The man looked the vehicle up and down.
“A tidy trap an’ mare for a poor man! Followed, are ye? Down ye get, both on ye—a lass, begow! We’re that mony lasses to-neet a man gits mixed ameng ’em.—Followed, are ye? I’m none so capped at that; poor men doesn’t drive traps an’ mares like yon; we arena thieves.—Tak’ th’ mare out.”
The mare was fastened to a tree, and Harry—Bessie wide-eyed at his side—watched the spectacle. Cattle gazed over walls, and moths and buzzards fluttered here and there. The ceiling-baulks of the toll-house bulged beneath the weight of the flagged roof, and the red glare of the fire lighted the filthy faces on which the sweat had trickled and run into the soot. Sparks and flame streamed straight upwards, and a fierce crackling mingled with the shouts of the men. The old toll-keeper on his heap of furniture held his head in his hands and moaned, “My garden, my garden!”
“’Tis awful!” said Bessie, shuddering and pressing closer to Harry.
Suddenly a dozen voices burst forth in a cry of “Heigh, there—stop!” The man who had spoken to Harry turned to him and said, “Yon’s som’b’dy after a trap an’ mare”; and Farmer Butler roared, “D—— ye, hands off! Where is he?”