'Besides,' pursued Zita, 'a shake up is as good as medicine to the insides. It puts them on their good behaviour. They are so tremenjous afraid of having it again.'
'But surely progress in this affair is not always like this.'
'Of course not. It is only in the Fens there are droves. It was bad at times where a highway had been new stoned. Then father and I clung to the perishables.'
'How do you mean?'
'We took them in our arms, or held them. If we were bruised, it did not matter; we mend up according to nature; but pots and pans don't. We always lost something, though. There was that tea-kettle that troubled father's last hours—it got a hole in it going over a bit of new road.'
This conversation took place in fits and starts, between the joltings of the van. Presently Jewel thought he had sufficiently exerted himself; he heaved a long sigh, looked back over his shoulder, and stood still.
'There, now,' said Runham, pulling a large red, white-spotted kerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow, 'Jewel is breathing, and so may we. This is agonies.'
'I call it pleasure,' said Zita. 'It must be, because it isn't business.'
'What did the horse mean by looking back at us, as he did just now when he sighed?'