It was this discovery that had given Swift an opening whose very splendor accounted for his present doubts and fears. Had his chance been spoilt by Herbert Luttrell, who had lately been on Wallandoon as Swift's overseer, for some ten days only, when the two young fellows had failed to pull together? This was not likely, for Herbert at his worst was an honest ruffian, who had taken the whole blame (indeed it was no more than his share) of that fiasco. Swift, however, could think of nothing else; nor was there time; for now the coach was so close that the crack of the driver's whip was plainly heard, and above the cluster of heads on the box a white handkerchief fluttered against the sky.
The publican whom Swift had snubbed addressed another remark to him from the veranda:
"There's a petticoat on board."
"So I see."
The coach came nearer.
"She's your boss's daughter," affirmed the publican—"the best of 'em."
"So you're cracking!"
"Well, wait a minute. What now?"
Swift prolonged the minute. "You're right," he said, hastily tying his reins to the brake.
"I am so."