A fit of train-sickness put a stop to Morgan’s enthusiasms for a time. In the cool of the evening they reached the station of Redlake, a small village which stands on a little river that is a torrent in winter but in summer no more than a trickle of water. From there a road, hung with heavy trees, runs straight to Brampton Bryan, three or four miles away. The train was crowded, and as they approached Redlake Mary grew uneasy, for she guessed that most of the travellers were bound for the same place and with the same purpose and began to wonder if they could find a lodging in so small a village. She whispered her fears to Abner, and they hurried from the station into the sloping street. The first inn that they came to was already full. ‘You might get a room at the Harley Arms, if you’re quick,’ a flustered landlord told them. They went straight on. Abner walked too quickly for them, and Mary almost had to run, dragging the children behind her. At the Harley Arms a fat woman eyed them suspiciously. ‘It’s the worst day of the whole year,’ she said. ‘I don’t see how I can do it. If you’d come in by the next train you wouldn’t have found a bed in the whole of Redlake.’ ‘You can’t turn the children out,’ said Abner. ‘The little boy’s been sick in the train.’ Morgan’s face was still patched yellow and white at the corners of the mouth. The landlady, against all her intentions, softened. ‘Poor little soul!’ she said. She tied another knot in the string of the blue striped apron that she wore, as though her hands must be doing something to contribute to the general atmosphere of haste and flurry. ‘Poor little soul! Well, now, what can I do? What with the pies and one thing and another! The only thing I can do is to put the man in the front room along with Mr Prowse at the back; but I must say I don’t like disturbing Mr Prowse, the number of fairs he’s been with me. Comes regular, he does . . . you can look for him like the swallows. Still, he’s a nice man: a very nice man, and if I told him all about it I don’t think he’d stand in your way. Come along, my dear!’ The last words were addressed to Mary, whose hand Morgan was clutching convulsively as though he still felt the train swinging under his feet. They all entered a room on the left of the doorway. In it were two long tables spread with coarse linen cloths of a gleaming whiteness and laden with a series of boiled hams crisped with golden bread-crumbs, and gigantic pies whose crusts were of the same rich hue. Loaves of white bread stood between them, and at the head of each table a leaning tower of plates. At the other end of the room a barrel of cider had been propped upon two bottle-boxes. Even Morgan’s revolted stomach could not resist the inspiration of seeing so much food. In a hushed voice he asked Mary what was inside the pies.