Whilst Patsy went to fetch the mare, Mr Fanshawe approached the coach-house door. Larry, an automaton even in his cups, had done his work carefully and well, even to barring the door. He must have done it silently, too.
Mr Fanshawe had just lifted the bar when in his hurry it slipped from his hands and fell on the flags with a bang. The straw of the yard did not reach quite to the coach-house door, and the sound was loud, and awful as the crack of doom. Mr Fanshawe removed the bar from the ground, placed it end up against the wall, opened the coach-house door and seized upon the dogcart, which was fortunately shafts towards the open door. He was wheeling it carefully out when a window shot open above.
“Hullo!” cried Mr Boxall’s voice, “what’s this?”
“It’s the Tullagh mail-cart, sir, broke down and come to borrow a horse,” cried Patsy, who was leading Fly-by-night out of the stable.
“What cart?” asked Mr Boxall. But Patsy did not answer; he had darted into the harness room and returned with the collar on one shoulder and dragging the harness after him.
“Quick, sir!” cried Patsy.
Mr Fanshawe did not need to be told. He had just passed the collar over the mare’s head when another window shot up.
“Hullo! hullo! what’s this?” came General Grampound’s voice, “what’s this? What the devil are you doing down there? Why, hi! Richard! Violet! God bless my soul, Boxall, quick, they’re making away. Raise the house.” His head vanished from the window.
“Don’t stop to answer him, sir,” cried Patsy. “Hould this strap wan minit—wo, you baste!—Don’t stop to answer him, sir. I’ve tied their dure handles togither wid a lingth of whipcord so’s they can’t get out till some one lets ’em. Lift your tail, y’ divil—listen to ’em, they’re fair thrapped.”
From the house could be heard the sounds that spoke of bedroom doors being hammered upon and kicked against, and the screaming of women wakened from their sleep, and the barking of Lady Molyneux’s pugs.