And here she was, perched up behind two of her
country's enemies--one of them as ugly as Old Nick or Boney himself--
and bowling down towards her peaceful home at anything from sixteen
to eighteen miles an hour.
I dare say, too, the thunderstorm had given her nerves a shaking; at
any rate, Jim the Guard came crawling over the coach-roof after a
while, and, said he, "Why, Mrs. Polwhele, whatever is the matter?
I han't heard you speak six words since we started."
And with that, just as he settled himself down for a comfortable chat
with her, after his custom, the poor lady points to the two
strangers, flings up both hands, and tumbles upon him in a fit of
hysterics.
"Stop the hosses!" yells Jim; but already Sammy Hosking was pulling
up for dear life at the sound of her screams.
"What in thunder's wrong with the female?" asks Bligh.
"Female yourself!" answers up Sammy in a pretty passion. "Mrs.
Polwhele's a lady, and I reckon your cussed rudeness upset her.
I say nothing of your face, for that you can't help."
Bligh started up in a fury, but Mr. Sharl pulled him down on the
seat, and then Jim the Guard took a turn.
"Pitch a lady's luggage into the road, would you?" for this, you must
know, was the reason of Bligh's sulkiness at starting.
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