them. Did—anyone send word up to Mains?”
“No. We waited ter hear the end of it—knowin’ young Art. He do have his own idea of a joke.”
Randal was on the box-seat as the men brought the team out to the street. He was crumpled, and tired—tired—until he could not remember a time when he was not tired. Then the jar of wheels was close on him; Effie Scannell pulled in the bay cob with a turn of her wrist, and tossed the reins to the groom beside her. There were boxes in the back of the cart. Randal saw them in one swift eye-flash. But he did not look again until it was necessary to stoop over and bring her up to the seat by the hand. The pressure in the meeting grip was hers only, and she said underbreath:
“I want to speak to you.”
Kiliat’s voice sounded at the wheel.
“You going down too. Miss Effie? Oh, I say! I don’t deserve such luck, you know.”
Effie leant over, speaking with quick little ripples of laughter as pole-straps and traces met buckled, and the mail bags were flung up to Randal. Behind, a heavy-footed woman and two complaining children made the body of the coach shake. The horses stirred impatiently with the freshness of the morning blowing on them, and yet Kiliat talked by the wheel to Effie.
