Men were shouting; horses were being driven
hither and thither, harnessed to the wagons, or drawing the huge
carts away as soon as they were loaded; and everything seemed in
the greatest state of confusion, while really the work was being
done in the most systematic manner possible.
Toby had not long to wait before the driver informed him that the
time for starting had arrived, and assisted him to climb up to the
narrow seat whereon he was to ride that night.
The scene was so exciting, and his efforts to stick to the narrow
seat so great, that he really had no time to attend to the homesick
feeling that had crept over him during the first part of the evening.
The long procession of carts and wagons drove slowly out of the
town, and when the last familiar house had been passed the driver
spoke to Toby for the first time, since they started.
"Pretty hard work to keep on -- eh, sonny?"
"Yes," replied the boy, as the wagon jolted over a rock, bouncing
him high in air, and he, by strenuous efforts, barely succeeded in
alighting on the seat again, "it is pretty hard work; an' my name's
Toby Tyler."
Toby heard a queer sound that seemed to come from the man's throat,
and for a few moments he feared that his companion was choking.
But he soon understood that this was simply an attempt to laugh,
and he at once decided that it was a very poor style of laughing.
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