"I've a good mind to let 'em go," said he sulkily as he walked over to the stables of the inn. "The notion of a man having to set out on this wild-goose chase at this time o' night! Run away, have they? and what in all the world have they run away for?"
It occurred to him, however, that the sooner he got a horse saddled and set out, the less distance he would have to go in pursuit; and that consideration quickened his movements.
"What's it all about?" said he to Roscorla, who had followed him into the stable.
"I suppose they mean a runaway match," said Mr. Roscorla, helping to saddle George Rosewarne's cob, a famous trotter.
"It's that young devil's limb, Mabyn, I'll be bound," said the father. "I wish to Heaven somebody would marry her!—I don't care who. She's always up to some confounded mischief."
"No, no, no," Roscorla said: "it's Wenna he means to marry."
"Why, you were to have married Wenna?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then why didn't you? So she's run away, has she?" George Rosewarne grinned: he saw how the matter lay.
"This is Mabyn's work, I know," said he as he put his foot in the stirrup and sprang into the saddle. "You'd better go home, Roscorla. Don't you say a word to anybody. You don't want the girl made a fool of all through the place."