“Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Can’t wait all afternoon for you. This ain’t no ’commodating train, and——”
“Hello, Joe, old chap; how’s your appetite?” “Still able to sit up and take your meals, Joe?” “Say, fellows, Old Joe’s looking younger every day.” “Give me a hand up, Joe, and I’ll show you how to drive those old plugs of yours.” “Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with you this trip, don’t you remember?”
“Have to be next time, youngster; seat’s full a’ready. How do, Mister Hope? Scramble out o’ here, sir, an’ give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, is that you, Mister Nesbitt? Well——”
“No, I’ll sit back here,” answered the boy addressed as Hope. “I can jump off quicker when we upset.”
“Hark to that,” growled the driver in pretended anger; “an’ me forty-two years on this road an’ never no accident yet. All aboard there! No, ye don’t, sir; no more room atop. Trunks’ll go up next trip, sir. All right now. Tlk! Get ap!”
The two stout grays, known popularly as “Spring Halt” and “Spavin,” settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably on its leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road. From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed to pack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out a wild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured the much-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind three others were perched. When the little stone station had been left the boy who occupied the other end of the driver’s seat, and whom “Old Joe” had called “Mister Nesbitt,” leaned across the intervening youth and addressed the driver:
“Now, Joe, let’s have the lines, old chap, and I’ll show you a bit of fancy driving that’ll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.”
“Now, don’t be askin’ for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know it’s agin the rules for the boys to drive.”
“What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?”