"Nonsense! He has not had a drop ever since we left Dustbury."
"Confound it!" screamed Mr. Skinner, taking his pipe from his mouth, which the last jolt had chucked so far down his throat that he was in some danger of swallowing it; "Od's wounds! but this is worse than the last judgment. Stop! Stop, I say! I'll get out—"
"Don't!" cried the attorney. "You cannot get out here, we are in the very deepest of the mud. Let us go on to the heath, it's dry ground there!"
"It's because the pigs have broken the ground," sighed the justice; "it's more dangerous still. Here there's at least a chance of falling on a soft place. No! I will get out."
"If you do, there is no knowing when we shall come to St. Vilmosh."
"Dear me! no! Stop! we're spilt! Terrem tette, stop! Jantshi, you beast!" screamed the justice still louder, while he clung to the cushions of the seat, and looked out for a chance of leaping to the ground.
"Go on!" cried the attorney, with suppressed laughter. "We've gained the heath now! On with you, or the cold of the night will kill us."
"Never mind the cold, if we can but get off with our bones unbroken."
"Yes, but think of my rheumatism! You know how much I suffer from it. It makes me shudder to breathe this damp air."
"You're bilious, that's the long and the short of it!" said Mr. Skinner, as the horses proceeded at a slow trot. "But mind what I tell you, that fellow will break all the bones in my body before we come to St. Vilmosh."