"See the old file in the gaiters by the eleven up?" said one.
"Rather. A reg'lar grandmother's great-grandfather just out of the year one. Talk about swallows, eh?—and the buckles—and the stockings!"
"Good sort, how-an'-ever."
"Good for a tip, eh? Wouldn't ha' thought it."
"No, but a real good-hearted 'un an' if he is a Pape."
"Never?"
"To be sure. Got me to put him in a fly for the Catholic Convent up Westminster way."
Greta could restrain herself no longer, but burst in upon them with twenty questions. When had the parson arrived? When had he left? Was it in a fly? Would it go quickly? Could there be time for it to get back?
"What's your train, miss—twelve to the north?"
"Yes; will he catch it?"