“Whin I saw Larry was drunk, I slipped upstairs wid the string and fastened their dure handles together,” said Patsy, as he laboured away at the straps. “Help me wid the trace, sir—it’s hitched. Faith, we’ve beaten thim; one more strap, and we’ve done. Quick, sir, in wid the lady—they’re out.”
The sounds upstairs had ceased.
“Jump into the carriage, children,” cried Violet, kissing Doris wildly, “and hide!” She opened the door of the old family coach, and the children popped in.
The next moment she was half lifted, half pushed into the dogcart. The bags were shot in, Mr Fanshawe took the reins. Patsy clambered up behind and they started.
“Let her have her mouth, sir,” said Patsy, as they turned out of the yard, “and don’t press her till she warms to her work. We’ve time and plenty, for it’ll take an hour before the ould Gineral kicks Larry sober. Mind the post, sir—that’s right—but mind the turnin’ at the drive.”
They passed the turning safely, then down the moonlit drive, Fly-by-night dancing with her own shadow in the moonlight, then through the park gates and the sleeping village of Castle Knock they went, the mare’s hoofs ringing on the hard high-road to Tullagh.
“I say, this is a go!” said little Lord Gawdor.
“Hush!” said Doris. “We can slip out when they put the carriage back in the coach-house.” She pulled the carriage door to, and they listened. They had not to listen long. Hurried steps came through the kitchen, and then Mr Boxall’s voice and the General’s.
“They’ve gone in the dogcart. What’s this carriage doing. Hi you, sir,”—the sound of a kick—“Hi you, sir—he’s drunk—Hi, you drunken beast,”—kick, kick.