“And this is the best time of the year for it, so I’m told.” It was
early summer time.
He said—“It’s all right in summer, and it’s good enough in winter—_while
it lasts_. You make the most of it, young ’un;” and he slapped me on the
back and laughed.
He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats and
left him.
At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the
coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be impertinent,
but because I have forgotten her surname. It must be ten years since I
last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with those brown eyes that
always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as
she had intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough to
say she felt every confidence in me.
The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a quarter of
a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the coachman, who
communicated the fact of our approach to the gathered passengers.
Everybody left off talking, and waited for us. The boots seized his
horn, and blew—one could hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to
say what he blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient wind. I
think his intention was to welcome us, but it suggested rather a feeble
curse. We learnt subsequently that he was a beginner on the instrument.
In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. The
booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I feared, for
a moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman grinned when I said
good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two
chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they grinned. I
drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I said—
“There’s something funny about us. All these people are grinning.”
She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of us
discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk said—
“It’s all right. I’ve got you young people two places just behind the
box-seat. We’ll have to put five of you on that seat. You won’t mind
sitting a bit close, will you?”
The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the
passengers, the passengers winked at one another—those of them who could
wink—and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became hysterical, and
had to cling to each other for support. With the exception of Minnie and
myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever assembled at
Lyndhurst.
We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom the joke,
when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded to know her place.
The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind the driver.
“We’ve had to put five of you on that seat,” added the clerk.
The stout lady looked at the seat.
“Five of us can’t squeeze into that,” she said.
Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized people with her
would find it tight.
“Very well then,” said the clerk, “you can have the end place on the back
seat.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said the stout lady. “I booked my seat on Monday,
and you told me any of the front places were vacant.
“_I’ll_ take the back place,” I said, “I don’t mind it.
“You stop where you are, young ’un,” said the clerk, firmly, “and don’t
be a fool. I’ll fix _her_.”