“Pish!” was the angry reply, as Linnell strained at the door, which suddenly yielded and flew open, the glass falling out with a tinkling noise.
Just at the same time the man with the leaders trotted back with his frightened horses, the broken traces dragging behind.
“Hurt, Jack?” he cried to his fellow.
“No, not much,” was the answer, as the postboy who rode the wheeler dragged his leg from beneath his horse, and immediately stepped round and held down the head of the animal, which was kicking and struggling to rise. “Woa! will yer. Hold still, Captain!”
With the customary feeling of helplessness that comes over a horse as soon as its head is pressed down, the poor animal ceased its frantic efforts, uttered a piteous sigh that was like that of a human being, and lay perfectly still.
“Old Spavin’s a dead ’un, mate,” said the man.
“Dead?” said the second postboy.
“Dead as a nit, mate. There’ll be something to pay for to-night’s job.”
“Anyone killed?” said the second man in a whisper.
“I d’know, and I don’t care,” grumbled the man; “my leg’s bruzz horrid. Shutin’ like that! It’s as bad as highwaymen. Here, come and help cut some of this harness. They’ll stand now. Take out your knife, mate, and use it. They’ll have to pay. I can’t sit on this ’oss’s head all night.”