Mercy shook her head again and dropped her eyes.
The driver twisted about to look at her. "Let a be, she's feeling it bad," he thought, and was silent for a moment. Then he twisted about for another look.
"I say, missy, got bad eyes?"
"They're sore, and a little dim," said Mercy.
"Blest if you don't look the spitting image of a friend of mine—'boutn the eyes, I mean—red and swelled up and such. It was Tom Crow, a partner of mine, in fact. Tom caught cold sleeping out one night as we was ferning down Roger Tichborne's estates—him as was the claimant for 'em, you know, on'y he didn't get 'em. The cold flew to Tom's eyes straight, and blest if he ain't gone blind as a mole."
Mercy's lips quivered. The driver stopped his chatter, conscious that he had gone too far, and then, with somewhat illogical perversity, he proceeded to express his vexation at himself by punishing his horse.
"Get along, you stupid old perwerse old knacker's crutch!"
The horse set off at a trot. They passed through a village, and Mercy read the name "Child's Hill" printed on the corner of a house.
"Is it London you are going to?" said Mercy, timidly; "Covent Garden—is that London?"
"Eh?" The driver opened his eyes very wide in a blank stare.