“Great heavens!” said Mr Fanshawe, “look at the thing he has harnessed!”
“He’s got it all muddled wid the whisky, sir,” whispered Patsy. “There’s nothin’ to be done but get the dogcart out ourselves and put the old mare to.”
He gave Larry a kick with his foot, and Larry gave a grunt.
“He’s full up,” said Patsy, as though he were speaking about a decanter.
“Couldn’t we go in this thing?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “I could drive.”
“There’s only Larry and the coachman that can make thim two ould horses go beyond a walk,” replied Patsy. “Better get the dogcart out and we’ll put the mare to in no time.”
“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Violet, what will you do whilst we’re harnessing?”
“I’ll stand and watch you,” replied she. “And O Dicky, don’t make a noise.”
“Mr Fanshawe,” whispered Doris, “his room is just above.”
“I know,” replied Mr Fanshawe, in the tone of a man who is driven to extremity. “Patsy, you fetch out the mare, I’ll fetch the dogcart out—that’s the coach-house door, isn’t it? Bother! the brute has put the bar up—quick, it’s eight minutes past two.”