But the ostler gave him no more than a stolid stare. “Nary a nag!” he replied coolly. “Nor like to be, master, wi’ every Quaker in Birmingham gadding up and down as if his life ’ung on it! Why, if I’ve——”
“Quakers? What the devil do you mean?” Clement cried, thinking that the man was reflecting on him.
“Well, Quakers or drab-coated gentry like yourself!” the man replied, unmoved. “And every one wi’ pistols and a money bag! Seems that’s what they’re looking for—money, so I hear. Such a driving and foraging up and down the land these days, it’s a wonder the horses’ hoofs bean’t worn off.”
“Then,” said Clement, turning about, “I’ll take these on to Meriden.”
But the waiting travellers had already climbed into the chaise and were in possession, and the postboy had turned his horses. And, “No, no, you’ll not do that,” said the ostler. “Custom of the road, master! Custom of the road! You must change and wait your turn.”
“But there must be something on,” Clement cried in despair, seeing himself detained here, perhaps for the whole night.
“Naught! Nary a ’oof in the yard, nor a lad!” the man replied. “You’d best take a bed.”
“But when will there be horses?”
“Maybe something’ll come in by daylight—like enough.”
“By daylight? Oh, confound you!” cried Clement, enraged. “Then I’ll walk on to Meriden.”