In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos and the rest, still in solemn
conclave over pipes and ale, who watched with gloomy brows as I
swung myself up beside the Ancient in the cart.
"A fule's journey!" remarked Old Amos sententiously, with a wave
of his pipe; "a fule's journey!"
The Ancient cast an observing eye up at the cloudless sky, and
also nodded solemnly.
"Theer be some fules in this world, Peter, as mixes up rabbits
wi' pa'tridges, and honest men--like Jarge--wi' thieves, an' lazy
waggabones--like Job--but we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em
--dang 'em! Drive on, Simon, my bye!"
So, with this Parthian shot, feathered with the one strong word
the Ancient kept for such occasions, we drove away from the
silenced group, who stared mutely after us until we were lost to
view. But the last thing I saw was the light in Prue's sweet
eyes as she watched us from the open lattice.