"Stand clear!" shouted Lawrence. Then he jumped the sheer eight feet of the wall, falling for his own comfort on the mass of beech leaves that filled the water-table below. The girl rose. She was filled with concern for the pony.
"Poor chap; he's been down before. How's his knees? All my fault. I got thinking and forgot the road was slippery."
"You're badly cut I'm thinking."
"It's nothing much. I fell on top of him when he came down. 'Twas a buckle done it I expect."
The man freed the pony and pulled back the trap. The animal had not hurt itself, but was frightened and in a mood to run away. The cart had a shaft broken short off, but was not otherwise injured.
Its driver directed Lawrence.
"Thank you I'm sure. That comes of wool-gathering when you ought to be minding your business. Serve me right. I'll take the pony—he knows me. D'you think you could pull the trap so far as Buckland, or shall I send for it? I can put it up there in a shed and send to Lower Town for a new shaft."
"I'll fetch it along. Is your face done bleeding?"
"Very near. You'll be Mr. Lawrence Maynard I suppose?"
"So I am then. How d'you know it?"