"Coorse, coorse; if yer wants to." Mercy thanked him, her eyes on the ground. She was already on the road. "Being as you're going my way, I ain't objecting to giving you a lift." "No, thank you. I have no--I've no money. I must run." "You'll wait till I ax for it, won't ye, missy? Come, get up." "And will you let me go down whenever I like?" "Coorse I will; why not? Up with ye! There, easy, kneel on the shaft, that's the size of it. Now, go set yourself down on them sacks. Them's apples, them is. Right? Very well. We're off, then." The wagon was about half full of sacks, and Mercy crept down in the furthest corner. "I ain't in the apple line reg'lar. I'm a fern-gatherer, that's wot I am. On'y nature don't keep ferning all the year round, so I'se forced to go fruiting winter times--buying apples same as them from off'n the farmers down the country, and bringing 'em up to Covent Garden. That's where I'm going now, that is. And got to be there afore the sales starts." Mercy listened, but said nothing. "You know Covent Garden--not fur from Leicester Square and the Haymarket?" Mercy shook her head. "What! Never been there--and that near?" Mercy shook her head again and dropped her eyes. The driver twisted about to look at her. "Let a be, she's feeling it bad," he thought, and was silent for a moment. Then he twisted about for another look. "I say, missy, got bad eyes?" "They're sore, and a little dim," said Mercy. "Blest if you don't look the spitting image of a friend of mine--'boutn the eyes, I mean--red and swelled up and such. It was Tom Crow, a partner of mine, in fact. Tom caught cold sleeping out one night as we was ferning down Roger Tichborne's estates--him as was the claimant for 'em, you know, on'y he didn't get 'em. The cold flew to Tom's eyes straight, and blest if he ain't gone blind as a mole." Mercy's lips quivered. The driver stopped his chatter, conscious that he had gone too far, and then, with somewhat illogical perversity, he proceeded to express his vexation at himself by punishing his horse. "Get along, you stupid old perwerse old knacker's crutch!" The horse set off at a trot. They passed through a village, and Mercy read the name "Child's Hill" printed on the corner of a house. "Is it London you are going to?" said Mercy, timidly; "Covent Garden--is that London?" "Eh?" The driver opened his eyes very wide in a blank stare. Mercy trembled and held down her head. They jogged on awhile in silence, and then the driver, who had cast furtive glances at the girl, drew rein, and said: "I'm wexed as I said Tom Crow was as blind as a mole. How-and-ever, a mole ain't blind, and it's on'y them coster chaps as think so, but I've caught a many of 'em out ferning. Besides, Tom was a-worrited with his missus, Tom was, and happen that was worse nor his cold. ("Git along, you old perwerse old file!)