The “tub” and Mr. Mahony’s donkey-cart being the only wheeled vehicles, were alone in their glory on the rise.
Mr Mahony was standing up in his cart making audible comments on the run, a sooty pipe an inch long in his mouth.
“He’s doubled!” suddenly yelled Patsy. “He’s afear’d of the river; it’s Killbegg he’ll be making for, and we’ll cotch a sight of them on the road if we can get there in time.”
“I’ll race yiz to the gate,” cried Mr Mahony, sitting down plump in his cart and plucking up the head of his donkey whilst he hit it a whack with the blackthorn stick he carried for a whip. “A hundred to one I get there first, and the divil take the hindmost. Hurroo!”
“Hurroo!” yelled Patsy. “Go it, Punch! Hould tight, Miss Doris—don’t be afear’d—we’ll be all right if the wheels hold and he doesn’t stick his fut in a rabbit hole. Hi! hi! hi! Sut-bags! drive fair, and don’t be crowdin’ me—we’re over—we ain’t—Holy Mary! the springs are goin’—hould on by your teeth, we’re comin’ to a trinch!”
Now, along the Tullagh road at this minute was coming a waggonette containing the first contingent of the guests from England, arrived only an hour ago at Tullagh station, and on their way to Glen Druid.
There were four people in the waggonette. General Grampound, an old gentleman, with a white moustache and a red face, sat in one corner. One could tell at a glance what he was; Nature and his profession had labelled him plainly: “Old East Indian general—peppery—this side up—don’t touch.”
By General Grampound sat his ward, Violet Lestrange, a pretty girl, with dark hair and blue eyes.
Opposite General Grampound sat Uncle Molyneux, a very aristocratic-looking, middle-aged person who wore an eye-glass and a waxed moustache.
Opposite Violet Lestrange sat Mr Boxall, the Member of Parliament, who looked as if he had swallowed a Blue Book and had not finished digesting it.