The unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe's life, floundered
along at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was no longer
visible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a puppet would have
been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward imitation of a canter, mended
her pace all at once, and did it of her own accord. The acquaintance
with her rider's usual mode of proceeding, which suggested this
improvement in hers, impelled her likewise to turn up a bye-way,
leading--not to London, but through lanes running parallel with the road
they had come, and passing within a few hundred yards of the Maypole,
which led finally to an inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick
mansion--the same of which mention was made as the Warren in the
first chapter of this history. Coming to a dead stop in a little copse
thereabout, she suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and
to tie her to the trunk of a tree.
'Stay there, old girl,' said Joe, 'and let us see whether there's any
little commission for me to-day.' So saying, he left her to browze upon
such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within the length of
her tether, and passing through a wicket gate, entered the grounds on
foot.
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