“The waggin, boy; I don’t see no waggin.”
“Why, there, with the pair of bay horses.”
“You don’t mean the carridge by the fence, do you?”
“Well, yes, only we call them wagons here.”
“An’ you calls the ’osses bay ’osses, do you?”
“Well now, I would call ’em beautiful ’osses, but I suppose bay means the same thing here. You’ve got strange ways in Canada.”
“Yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as I hope you shall find out ere long. Get in, now. Take care! Now then, Hetty—come, Matty. How difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling Matty I left in London!”
Matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother.
“Do you drive, Tim; I’ll stay inside,” said Bob.
In another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to Brankly Farm at the rate of ten miles an hour.