There was a general chorus of satisfaction at many
watches and trinkets saved, and then the first passenger
went on,—
“I propose, gentlemen and ladies, that when
we get to the end of our journey we make a subscription,
according to the amount we have saved, and that we
get each of these young gentlemen a brace of the very
best pistols that can be bought. If they go on
as they have begun, they will find them useful.”
There was a general exclamation of approval, and one
of the ladies, who had been an inside passenger, said,
“And I think we ought to give a handsome ring
to their sister as a memorial through life. Of
course, she had not so much to do as her brothers,
but she had the courage to keep still, and she had
to run the risk, both of being shot, and of being
upset by the coach just as they did.”
This also was unanimously approved, and, after doing
full justice to the breakfast set before them, the
party again took their places. Rhoda being carried
down asleep, by the landlady, and placed in the coach,
one of the inside passengers getting out to make room
for her, and she was laid, curled up, on the seat,
with her head in a lady’s lap, and slept quietly,
until, to her astonishment, she was woke up, and told
that she was in Marlborough.
Two young pickles.
An old-fashioned open carriage, drawn by a stiff,
old-fashioned horse, and driven by a stiff, old-fashioned
man, was in waiting at the inn at which the coach
drew up at Marlborough. Into this the young Scudamores
were soon transferred, and, after a hearty good-bye
from their fellow-passengers, and an impressive one
from the coachman, they started upon the concluding
part of their journey.
“How far is it to aunt’s?” Tom asked.
“About six miles, young sir,” the driver
said gravely.
The young Scudamores had great difficulty to restrain
their laughter at Tom’s new title; in fact,
Peter nearly choked himself in his desperate efforts
to do so, and no further questions were asked for
some time.
The ride was a pleasant one, and Rhoda, who had never
been out of Lincolnshire before, was delighted with
the beautiful country through which they were passing.
The journey, long as it was—for the road
was a very bad one, and the horse had no idea of going
beyond a slow trot—passed quickly to them
all; but they were glad when the driver pointed to
a quaint old-fashioned house standing back from the
road, and said that they were home.
“There are the pigeons, Rhoda, and there is
Minnie asleep on that open window-sill.”
Very many times had the young Scudamores talked about
their aunt, and had pictured to themselves what she
would be like; and their ideas of her so nearly approached
the truth, that she almost seemed to be an old acquaintance
as she came to the door as the carriage stopped.
She was a tall, upright, elderly lady, with a kind,
but very decided face, and a certain prim look about
her manner and dress.
