"No, thank you. I have no—I've no money. I must run."
"You'll wait till I ax for it, won't ye, missy? Come, get up."
"And will you let me go down whenever I like?"
"Coorse I will; why not? Up with ye! There, easy, kneel on the shaft, that's the size of it. Now, go set yourself down on them sacks. Them's apples, them is. Right? Very well. We're off, then."
The wagon was about half full of sacks, and Mercy crept down in the furthest corner.
"I ain't in the apple line reg'lar. I'm a fern-gatherer, that's wot I am. On'y nature don't keep ferning all the year round, so I'se forced to go fruiting winter times—buying apples same as them from off'n the farmers down the country, and bringing 'em up to Covent Garden. That's where I'm going now, that is. And got to be there afore the sales starts."
Mercy listened, but said nothing.
"You know Covent Garden—not fur from Leicester Square and the Haymarket?"
Mercy shook her head.
"What! Never been there—and that near?"