THE ROAD TO ANDERBY
"Well," sighed Mary, "and that's that."
She thrust the last parcel into the back of the dog-cart, and walked round to examine the pony's harness. The ostler at the Paul Jones had a natural gift of imperfection.
"How many times have I told you to twist the belly-band once round the strap before you pass it under the pony's body?" she inquired with asperity.
While she was attending to this business herself, John lounged into the yard, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands thrust into the pockets of a light overcoat. He stood watching as her strong fingers tugged at the stiff straps and buckles. She gave the ostler his sixpence and climbed up to the driver's seat.
"Just hold the pony's head till we get out of the yard, will you, ostler? Now then, John, are you up?"
"Going to be a rough night, Mrs. Robson," remarked the ostler, as John mounted the step.
Mary looked from the threatening sky to the orange peel and paper bags blown by the wind along the esplanade.
"Yes, but we shall be well home before the storm breaks. With a wind like this, the rain will hold off long enough. That's right. Now let go, please."
The cart swung out of the inn yard, and clattered down the lamplit street, Mary driving dexterously among the Saturday night crowd.