“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“Be quick in front, my gude man; let's be off; we've lost time enough with the snow already.”
The coachman had mounted to his box, and was wrapping a sheepskin about his knees.
“What's that you have there?” he said to Reuben.
“Him? Why, that's Robbie Anderson, poor fellow. One o' them lads, thoo knows, that have no mair nor one enemy in all the world, and that's theirselves.”
“Out for a spoag, eh?”
“Come, get along, man, and let's have no more botherment,” cried one of the impatient passengers.
Two or three miles farther down the road Reuben was holding in his horse, in order to cross a river, when he thought that, in the comparative silence of his springless wagon, he heard Robbie speaking behind him.
“It's donky weather, this,” Robbie was saying.