“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the stout man. “She can’t do it!”
“It’s only nine mile,” said the woman, with a sort of hysterical giggle;—“and I’m fond of walking.”
“Give her her luggage, then, at once,” cried the little man from the coach. The dark man held out his watch. A passenger on the top swore horribly, and threatened to get down, and Tom himself, as well as his horses, were on the fret.
“There is no remedy,” sighed the fat man, as he resumed his old seat in the corner of the coach. The whip smacked—I leaned out for a parting look.
There she stood nursing three bundles, each as big as a baby, and as we rolled off I heard her last words in this soliloquy:
“How ham I to hever to get to York by the mail?”
THE “SHORT STAGE,” A MILE END OMNIBUS.
