rt had invited several of her friends, among the
number an athletic young curate named Mr. Browne, who tucked both Arnold
and Bertie Rokeby easily under one arm, and held them there as in a
vice, while he dangled Charlie Chester in mid-air with the other hand--a
feat of prowess which so excited their admiration that they clung to him
like burrs for the rest of the afternoon. The Wrights had turned up in
full force, with the aunt and mademoiselle, and were commenting upon the
horses and the general arrangements in their best English-French; while
even the little Barringtons had been allowed, after all, to join the
fun, though at the last moment, much to Ruth's disgust, their mother
had decided to accompany them, to see that they did not race about in
the sun or eat indigestible delicacies.

It took a long time to settle all the guests in their seats, and to stow
away the lively members of the party where they could not get into
mischief, yet would not interfere with the comfort of their more
sober-minded elders, was as difficult a problem as the well-known puzzle
of the fox, the goose, and the bag of corn; but eventually things were
arranged to everybody's satisfaction. Bertie Rokeby, who had announced
his intention of taking the journey hanging on to the leather strap at
the back beside the guard, was safely wedged between his long-suffering
mother and the jovial curate; while Charlie Chester had been allowed to
screw into a spare six inches of box-seat next to the driver, who held
out a half-promise that he might hold the reins going uphill. The whole
company seemed in the gayest of spirits and the most sociable of moods.
Mr. Chester, who was something of a wag, kept both coaches in a roar
with his jokes, and a fashionably-dressed young lady in pince-nez, who
had looked rather unapproachable at first, proved to have her pockets
overflowing with chocolates, which she distributed with a liberal hand,
and was voted by the boys in consequence a "regular out-and-outer."

The last comers being at length seated, and the last forgotten basket
put inside, the guards blew their horns, the drivers whipped up, and the
two coaches set off with a dash, to the admiration of all the visitors
in Marine Terrace, and the rejoicing of a small crowd of barefooted boys
from the town, who had assembled to watch the start, and who ran
diligently for nearly half a mile behind them shouting, "A 'alfpenny!
Give us a 'alfpenny!" with irritating m