Though I shot over the frozen bank a deal faster than ever I intended and dropped on the roadway with a thud, the trooper, bawling his chorus, did not turn in his saddle. I tip-toed after him, between a walk and a run, and still he did not turn. Not till I was level with his stirrup did he guess that I was on him; and even so he could scarcely roar out a curse before I had my sash flung over him and with a jerk fetched him clean out of his saddle. As he pitched sideways, the lantern fell with a clatter and rolled into the hedge.
'What the devil's up with you, back there!' At the noise, I heard two or three of the midmost troopers rein up.
'Right! All right!' I called forward to them, catching the horse's bridle and at the same time stooping over the poor fool—to gag him, if need were. He lay as he had fallen. I hope I have not his death to my account, and for certain no corpse lay in the road when I passed along it a few hours later.
'Right!' I called sturdily, deepening my voice to imitate that of my victim as nearly as I could match it—
'Crop-headed Puritans, tow-row-row!'
Still shouting the chorus, I mastered the reluctant horse, swung myself into saddle, and edged up towards my comrades.
'Carey! Shackell!' I called softly, overtaking them.
At the sound of my voice, they came near to letting out a cry that had spoilt all. Masters, indeed, started a yell: but Small Owens (whose bands I had fortunately cut the first) reached out a hand and clapped it over his mouth.
'How many be they?' I asked as we rode.
'Twenty-two,' answered Randles, chafing his wrists, 'and all drunk as lords.'