The cottage, with its outbuildings, made a
little farmstead, and here lived Dick Doley and his wife Sal, who did a
little farming, but mainly lived by huckstering. Today was market-day at
Stafford, and unless they had broken the routine of half a lifetime, they
would now be packing their little cart with marketables and soon be off
for the town. They had neither chick nor child, lad-servant nor lassie,
and they would leave the cottage empty and at our disposal. At this time
of the day I could, of course, have trusted both, but they were very human
bodies of a sort to rejoice the business side of the heart of Joe Braggs,
and it was best not to give them the chance of blabbing later in the day
when, for a moral certainty, they would both be market fresh. Besides, it
was unfair to thrust myself on the kindness of anyone. I had more than
once wondered what had happened to poor little Marry-me-quick.
I scrambled through the hedge and peeped down the road. I was right. Dick
and his wife were busy loading up. So we waited behind the hedge till they
had cleared off, and indeed did not move till I saw them and their cart
pass along the road at the foot of the hill.
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