“How is that, sir?”
“Too good a road, nephew. I have only to give them their heads, and they will race me into Westminster. It wasn’t always so. When I was a very young man one might learn to handle his twenty yards of tape here as well as elsewhere. There’s not much really good waggoning now south of Leicestershire. Show me a man who can hit ’em and hold ’em on a Yorkshire dale-side, and that’s the man who comes from the right school.”
We had raced over Crawley Down and into the broad main street of Crawley village, flying between two country waggons in a way which showed me that even now a driver might do something on the road. With every turn I peered ahead, looking for our opponents, but my uncle seemed to concern himself very little about them, and occupied himself in giving me advice, mixed up with so many phrases of the craft, that it was all that I could do to follow him.
“Keep a finger for each, or you will have your reins clubbed,” said he. “As to the whip, the less fanning the better if you have willing cattle; but when you want to put a little life into a coach, see that you get your thong on to the one that needs it, and don’t let it fly round after you’ve hit. I’ve seen a driver warm up the off-side passenger on the roof behind him every time he tried to cut his off-side wheeler. I believe that is their dust over yonder.”
A long stretch of road lay before us, barred with the shadows of wayside trees. Through the green fields a lazy blue river was drawing itself slowly along, passing under a bridge in front of us. Beyond was a young fir plantation, and over its olive line there rose a white whirl which drifted swiftly, like a cloud-scud on a breezy day.
“Yes, yes, it’s they!” cried my uncle. “No one else would travel as fast. Come, nephew, we’re half-way when we cross the mole at Kimberham Bridge, and we’ve done it in two hours and fourteen minutes. The Prince drove to Carlton House with a three tandem in four hours and a half. The first half is the worst half, and we might cut his time if all goes well. We should make up between this and Reigate.”
And we flew. The bay mares seemed to know what that white puff in front of us signified, and they stretched themselves like greyhounds. We passed a phaeton and pair London-bound, and we left it behind as if it had been standing still. Trees, gates, cottages went dancing by. We heard the folks shouting from the fields, under the impression that we were a runaway. Faster and faster yet they raced, the hoofs rattling like castanets, the yellow manes flying, the wheels buzzing, and every joint and rivet creaking and groaning, while the curricle swung and swayed until I found myself clutching to the side-rail. My uncle eased them and glanced at his watch as we saw the grey tiles and dingy red houses of Reigate in the hollow beneath us.
“We did the last six well under twenty minutes,” said he. “We’ve time in hand now, and a little water at the Red Lion will do them no harm. Red four-in-hand passed, ostler?”
“Just gone, sir.”
“Going hard?”