THE MOVING FINGER

By Mary Gaunt

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety and wit
Shall lore it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”

METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON
1895






Contents

TROTTING COB

CHRISTMAS EVE AT WARWINGIE

LOST

THE LOSS OF THE “VANITY

DICK STANESBY’S HUTKEEPER

THE YANYILLA STEEPLECHASE

A DIGGER’S CHRISTMAS





TROTTING COB

“Hi—hey—hold up there, mare, will you? What did you say, mister? A light? Yes. That ‘s Trotting Cob, that is. The missus ‘ll give us a cup of tea, but that’s about all. Devil fly away with the mare. What is it? Something white in the road? Water by ——. Thank the Lord, they Ve had plenty of rain this year. But they do say there’s a ghost hereabouts—a Trotting Cob, with a man in white on him? Lord, no, that’s an old woman’s tale. But the girl—she walks—she walks they say, and mighty good reason—too—if all tales be true. Hosses always shy here if they Ve at all skittish. Got that letter, Jack, and the tobacco? That’s right! Rum, isn’t it, to get all your news of the world at dead of night? Reg’ler as clockwork we pass—a little after one, and the coach from Deniliquin she passes an hour or so earlier.

“Anybody else? Well, no, not as a rule. It’s the stock route? you see, between Hay and Deniliquin, so there’s bound to be stock on the way; but sheep, bless you! they travel six miles a day, and cattle they ain’t so much faster, so we brings ‘em all the news. The Company has stables here, and feed, and we change horses. The old man and old woman keep it, with a boy or two. Mighty dull for the old woman, I should think, with on’y the ghost to keep her company. She was her cousin or her aunt or somethin’, the ghost was, and, Lord, women is fools an’ no mistake.” It was July, and the winter rains had just fallen, so that the plains, contrary to custom, were a regular sea of mud.

The wheels sank axle deep in it. The horses floundered through it in the darkness, and every now and then the lamps were reflected in a big pool of shallow water. The wind blew keen and cold, but the coach was full inside and out, and so, though it was pitch dark, I kept my seat by the driver.

A light gleamed up out of the darkness.

“Trotting Cob!” said he, and discoursed upon it till he pulled up his horses on their haunches exactly opposite a wide-open door, where the lamplight displayed a rudely-laid table and a bright fire, which seemed hospitably to beckon us in. The whole place was as wide awake as if it were noon instead of midnight.

Ten minutes’ stay, and we were off again into the darkness, and then I prevai

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