They jumped into the gig. “Give her her head, Tom,” cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.
“How much are they ahead?” shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.
“Not above three-quarters of an hour,” was everybody’s reply.
“Chaise and four directly!—out with ’em! Put up the gig afterwards.”
“Now, boys!” cried the landlord—“chaise and four out—make haste—look alive there!”
Away ran the hostlers, and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.
“Now then!—is that chaise coming out to-night?” cried Wardle.
“Coming down the yard now, sir,” replied the hostler.
Out came the chaise—in went the horses—on sprung the boys—in got the travellers.
“Mind—the seven-mile stage in less than half-an-hour!” shouted Wardle.