“About half-an-hour or more. That’s ’im over there in the stable.”
The two men looked round, almost expecting to see Harry, and met the postillion’s red countenance and hilarious glance which beamed at them from a doorway; evidently he had had refreshment after his exertions, and, from the satisfaction on his face, it seemed unlikely that he had paid for it himself. He came forward rather unsteadily.
“Have you come from Llangarth?” cried Mr. Fenton, pointing over his shoulder at the muddy vehicle.
The man smiled and laid his finger along the side of his nose; whoever was responsible for his entertainment had not done the thing by halves. Then he stood a moment, his legs wide apart and his thumbs in the armholes of his open jacket, eyeing the gentlemen with vacillating complaisance.
“That ’ud be lettin’ the cat out of ’er bagsh,” he replied slowly, turning away with what he supposed to be dignity.
Mr. Fenton sprang after him, raising his cane, but the Vicar interposed. “That will do no good; there is a much better way than that,” he said, as he took a couple of half-crowns out of his pocket. “Look here, my man, which church did you drive them to?”
“Don’t know the name of it,” replied the postillion, with a guileful look. “Unless you’re come to m—marry ’em?” he added, suddenly realizing Mr. Lewis’ clerical dress.
The Vicar hated a lie of any kind, and hesitated, but his companion had no such scruples.
“We shall be late if you don’t tell us,” he broke in, “and they will not be married to-day. It’s getting on for twelve.”
The man stood scratching his head; his mind was turned upside down in a chaos of beer, and there was nothing to suggest that the two gentlemen who had walked into the yard had been travelling post haste.