"It ain't my fault if you fall asleep."
"The last stage was five miles this side of Cuckfield, you ought to know the road by this time. How many are we?"
"Eight," shouted Dicky, blowing the blatant horn. "You're on, Jem, aren't you? Number two or three will get it; at this time of the year milk is scarce. Pass on the hat quick; quick, you devil, pass it on. What have you got, Kitty?"
"Just like my luck," cried Muchross; "I've got eight."
"And I've seven," said Snowdown; "never have I won yet. In the autumn
I get sevens and eights, in the summer ones and twos. Damn!"
"I've got five," said Kitty, "and Mike has got two; always the lucky one. A lady leaves him four thousand a year, and he comes down here and rooks us."
The coach swept up a gentle ascent, and Muchross shouted—
"Two milk-cans! Hand him over the quid and chuck him out!"
The downs rose, barring the sky; and they passed along the dead level of the weald, leaving Henfield on their right; and when a great piece of Gothic masonry appeared between some trees, Mike told Kitty how it had been once John Norton's intention to build a monastery.
"He would have founded a monastery had he lived two centuries ago," said Harding; "but this is an age of concessions, and instead he puts up a few gargoyles. Time modifies but does not eradicate, and the modern King Cophetua marries not the beggar, but the bar-maid."