she’s an heiress and landowner, so as to make a wealthy marriage. But nothing will ever come of it, mark my word!”
They started off—rattle—rattle—rattle—through the back entry and down the garden path. It was a very bumpy ride. The express wagon felt too drowsy to look where he was going. Moreover he was still quite cross and so didn’t mind how much he shook them all up.
Rattle! Now they were going round and round the strawberry bed. At each turn the wheels lifted up, nearly spilling them out. Anna, who tried to keep pace with them, kept on tripping. “Stop!” cried Poor Cecco. “This isn’t the way!”
But the express-wagon laughed a nasty laugh.
“You woke me up for your pleasure,” he declared, “and now I shall go where I choose for mine! And I choose to go round and round the strawberry bed!”
But in the end he grew tired of it and dumped them all, suddenly and unexpectedly, on a border of spring onions.
Luckily the onion leaves were soft. But they smelt horribly. Harlequin in particular was furious.
“It’s the very last time,” he shouted, “that we shall engage you on any of our expeditions!”
“Engage!” said the wagon. “Engage! That’s good!” And he rumbled back to the house, squeaking all the way, “Engage!”
