Then he joined the main road.
The main road was empty except for a caravan--a caravan gaily painted
in red and yellow. It had little lace curtains at the window. It was
altogether a most fascinating caravan. No one seemed to be near it.
William looked through the windows. There was a kind of dresser with
crockery hanging from it, a small table and a little oil stove. The
further part was curtained off but no sound came from it, so that it
was presumably empty too. William wandered round to inspect the
quadruped in front. It appeared to be a mule--a mule with a jaundiced
view of life. It rolled a sad eye towards William, then with a deep
sigh returned to its contemplation of the landscape. William gazed
upon caravan and steed fascinated. Never, in his future life of noble
merit, would he be able to annex a caravan. It was his last chance. No
one was about. He could pretend that he had mistaken it for his own
caravan or had got on to it by mistake or--or anything. Conscience
stirred faintly in his breast, but he silenced it sternly. Conscience
was to rule him for the rest of his life and it could jolly well let
him alone _this_ day. With some difficulty he climbed on to the
driver's seat, took the reins, said "Gee-up" to the melancholy mule,
and the whole equipage with a jolt and faint rattle set out along the
road.
William did not know how to drive, but it did not seem to matter. The
mule ambled along and William, high up on the driver's seat, the reins
held with ostentatious carelessness in one hand, the whip poised
lightly in the other was in the seventh heaven of bliss.
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