I made shift to load it in the dark, and, having lit it with a wax match, took the opportunity to inspect the interior of my prison.

It was a shabby affair.

The moth-eaten state of the blue cloth cushions seemed to suggest that it had been long out of regular use; the oil-cloth floor-covering was worn into holes; ordinary internal fittings there were none.

But the appearances suggested that the crazy vehicle had been prepared with considerable forethought for its present use.

The inside handles of the doors had apparently been removed; the wooden shutters were permanently fixed in their places; and a paper label, stuck on the transom below each window, had a suspicious appearance of having been put there to cover the painted name and address of the job-master or livery-stable keeper who had originally owned the carriage.
These observations gave me abundant food for reflection.