Mr Hawkins mounted the brown gelding. “Now, my bullies all, take it easy. We ride down on ’em, see? You wants to be careful how you looses off them pops. I’m a peaceable cove, and we don’t want no killing.” He nodded at the Viscount. “You’re handy with your pop; you and me’ll do the shooting, and mind it’s over their nobs!”
The Viscount drew one of his pistols from the holster. “Wonder how the mare will take it?” he said cheerfully.” Steady, Firefly! Steady, lass!”
A post-chaise drawn by four trotting horses came round the bend. Mr Hawkins snatched at the Viscount’s bridle. “Easy, easy!” he begged. “Give ’em time to come alongside! No sense in letting ’em see us yet. You wait on me.”
The post-chaise came on. “Nice pair of wheelers,” commented Sir Roland. “Good holders.”
“Capting, you’ll cover them postilions, see?” ordered Mr Hawkins.
“If we don’t move soon, there’ll be no postilions to cover!” snapped the Viscount. “Come on, man!”
The post-chaise was almost abreast of them. Mr Hawkins released the Viscount’s bridle. “At ’em, then!” he said, and drove his heels into his horse.
“Yoiks! Forrard away!” halloed Sir Roland, and thundered down the slope, waving his pistol.
“Pom, don’t you let that barker off!” shouted the Viscount, abreast of him, and levelling his own slenderer weapon.
Rising in his stirrups, he pulled the trigger, and saw one of the postilions duck as the shot whistled over his head. The mare shied violently and tried to bolt. He held her head on her course, and came down like a thunderbolt across the road. “Stand and deliver!—steady, lass!”