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“Then you’ll send your boy, Jim?”

Jim scratched his head. “Couldn’t you manage it yourselves?”

“Surely it won’t harm you to help us out of Marshfielden?” said Alan bitterly.

“I do’ant rightly know, sir, but—”

“Well?”

“I’d rather lend you my trolley, sir, than my boy. I do be mighty feared of the ‘Curse’.”

“All right, Jim, give us the trolley. We’ll do it ourselves.” The blacksmith wheeled it out, and gave it with half an apology to Alan.

“Don’t apologize, Jim. I understand.”

But the blacksmith had one more thing to say. “Do’ant ’ee trouble to bring it back to Marshfielden, sirs, leave it with Ezra Meakin. He’ll bring it back for ’ee.”

“Oh, don’t fear, Jim, we won’t return to Marshfielden once we’ve left. Ezra shall return it safely. We’ll pay you now.”

Jim was not too frightened to refuse payment, and the liberal amount of silver they showered on him touched him.

“I do’ant mean to be rude, sir,” he began—but the boys had started on their way and were already wheeling the lumbering trolley down the uneven street.