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"Then you had better go to Edgington, ma'am. That's four miles from here on t' Raynham ro-ad." The man pointed out the way to the village of which he spoke; and Lady Eversleigh set forth across the wide expanse of moorland alone. She had considerable difficulty in finding her way, for there were no landmarks on that broad stretch of level turf.
Used to wo'k fo' the Desmonds got that summa place up the side of the mountain before I took to the ro-ad." "Oh, yes! Have they still got it?" "Yes. Or it's got them. Be glad to sell it, I guess, since the old man lost his money. But Lowa Merritt's kind o' gone down as a summa roso't. Tryin' ha'd to bring it up, though. Know the Desmonds?" "No, not personally."
"Here, you!" he bellowed, "it's about two miles into town. Hoof it in thar an' when yer git ter camp tell Sam Stow to run ther show ter-night. I'm off on important business, tell him." As the "chaffer" shuffled off, Buck Bradley began to hum: "I knew at dawn, when de rooster crowed, Dere wuz gwine ter be trouble on de Gran' Trunk Ro-ad!"
I do not recollect a sharper double humiliation than when old Sam Lamble, the blacksmith, who was one of the 'saints', being asked by my Father whether he had met me, replied 'Yes, I zeed 'un up- long, making mud pies in the ro-ad! What a position for one who had been received into communion 'as an adult'! What a blot on the scutcheon of a would-be Columbus! 'Mud-pies', indeed!
"Nice fo-aks," said the conductor, providing himself for conversational purposes with a splinter from the floor. He put it between his teeth and continued: "I took ca' thei' hosses, one while, as long's they had any, before I went on the ro-ad. Old gentleman kep' up a show till he died; then the fam'ly found out that they hadn't much of anything but the place left.
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