"LUMME! THIS IS A BIT OF ALL RIGHT, I DON'T THINK. ME A-VOLUNTEERIN' FOR INFANTRY, GOIN' RIGHT THROUGH ME TRAININ', AN' NAH THEY MAKES A BLOOMIN' LANCER OF ME!"
'EAD-WORK.
Bob Winter is our local carrier. His old grey mare Molly—or a predecessor very like her, driven by Bob's father before him—has jogged into town on market days as long as anyone in the village can remember. The weather-beaten, oft-patched tilt of Bob's cart must have heard in its day generations of village gossip, and a mere inspection of the cargo on the flap which lets down at the back will provide quite an amount of interesting information, such as "whose new housemaid's tin trunk be a-goin' to station already, lookee, and who be a-getten a new tyre to ees bicycle—see."
Now, however, there is a likelihood that Bob may be called up; and the fate of the carrying business hangs in the balance.
"Never mind, Bob," I said (I had overtaken him and old Molly sauntering up the steep hill above the village); "if it comes to that, you know, the women-folk will have to take turns at the carrying while you are away. I believe I should make rather a good carrier."
Bob shook his head and looked evasive.
"No, Miss," he said, "'twuddn' do, 'twuddn' do at all."
"Come," I said, "you don't mean to say Molly would be too much for me?"