“Look here,” said Ike; “I shall just draw to one side and wait till he’ve gone by. Steady, Bony; woa, lad! Now he may go on, and sing all the way to Dover if he likes.”
Suiting the action to the word Ike pulled one rein; but Basket kept steadily on, and Ike pulled harder. But though Ike pulled till he drew the horse’s head round so that he could look at us, the legs went on in the same track, and we did not even get near the side of the road.
“He knows it ain’t right to stop here,” growled Ike. “Woa, will yer! What a obstin’t hammer-headed old buffler it is! Woa!”
Basket paid not the slightest heed for a few minutes. Then, as if he suddenly comprehended, he stopped short.
“Thankye,” said Ike drily; “much obliged. It’s my belief, though, that the wicked old walking scaffold was fast asleep, and has on’y just woke up.”
“Why, he couldn’t go on walking in his sleep, Ike,” I exclaimed.
“Not go on walking in his sleep, mate! That there hoss couldn’t! Bless your ’art, he’d do a deal more wonderful things than that. Well, that there chap’s a long time going by. I can’t wait.”
Ike looked back, holding on by the iron support of the ladder.
“I carnt see nothing. Just you look, mate, your side.” I looked back too, but could see nothing, and said so. “It’s strange,” growled Ike. “Go on, Bony.” The horse started again, the baskets creaked, the wheels ground the gravel, and the cart jolted and jerked in its own particular springless way, and then all of a sudden:
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”