“Geordie suggested ‘cuss words’,” grinned Aveline. “I expect that’s what Dandy’s accustomed to from most of his drivers.”
“Don’t suppose he’d be particular as to the exact words,” said Raymonde. “Probably it’s the tone of voice that does it. Let’s wait till he gets to the top of this hill, then I’ll prod him again, and we’ll both growl out ‘Go on!’ and see if it has any effect.”
“If it hasn’t, I shall lead him and run by his head. It would be quicker than this pace.”
“We’ll try shouting first. Here we are at the top of the hill. Now, both together, in the gruffest voice you can muster. Are you ready? One—two—three—Go on, Dandy!”
Whether it was really the result of the deep bass tones, or Raymonde’s unexpected prod, or merely the fact that they had arrived at the summit of the slope, the girls could not determine, but the effect on the pony was instantaneous. He gathered all 134 four legs together, and gave a sudden jump, apparently of apprehension, then set off down the hill as fast as he could tear.
“Hold him in!” yelled Aveline, alarmed at such an access of speed.
“I’m trying to!” replied Raymonde, pulling at the reins as hard as her arms would allow.
Dandy, however, seemed determined for once to show his paces, and took no more notice of Raymonde’s checking than he had previously done of her urgings. The little trap was flying like the wind, when without the least warning a most unanticipated thing happened. The worn, crazy old straps of the harness broke, and the pony, giving a wrench that also snapped the reins, ran straight out of the shafts. The gig promptly fell forward, precipitating both girls, amid a shower of parcels, into the road, where they sat for a moment or two almost dazed with the shock, watching the retreating heels of Dandy as he fled in terror of the dangling straps that were hitting him on the flanks.
“Are you hurt?” asked Raymonde at last, getting up and tenderly feeling her scraped shins.
“No, only rather bruised—and astonished,” replied Aveline.