They stopped at the toll, and the guard prepared to disentangle Miss Ridgeway’s possessions from the other luggage. Harry and Llewellyn jumped down, and the former went towards the strange-looking conveyance which was moored up under the lee of the hedge. He peered into the weather-beaten hood which crowned it, expecting to find the Vicar of Crishowell inside, but its only occupant was a huddled-up figure fast asleep. He shook it smartly.
Howlie Seaborne opened his eyes without changing his position.
“Wake up, boy!” cried Fenton, leaning over the wheel and plastering himself with a layer of mud by the act; “do you belong to Mr. Lewis?”
“Naw,” said Howlie.
“Then has no one come to meet Miss Ridgeway?”
“Here oi be, but oi belong to moiself an’ to no one else. Be her come?”
“Your uncle is not here, but he has sent for you,” said Harry, going up to the coach from which Llewellyn was helping Isoline to descend.
Howlie gave the old white mare in front of him a slap with the whip, and arrived in the middle of the road with a great creaking and swaying.
“Oi can’t take them boxes along,” he remarked, pointing to Miss Ridgeway’s luggage which stood in the road.
“Never mind, you can send for them after,” said Harry. “Guard, put them in the toll-house if any one is there.”