The man shouldered the valise and carried it to the waiting fly. Buckland and his sister entered the vehicle, the driver shut the door, touched his hat, clambered to his seat, and drove off. He knew the address; for the past year The Acacias, on the Chertsey Road, had been occupied by the Hon. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, a middle-aged widow who kept house for her orphan nephew and niece. The fly rattled along through the village.
About half a mile from the station, as every one knows, the road sweeps round in a sharp curve to the right. To the left, at right-angles with it, stands the Anchor Hotel, with the vicarage adjacent and the old ivy-clad church beyond. Just as the fly reached the curve, there was a warning hoot from the opposite direction, and Buckland, glancing past the driver, saw a motor-car of unusual shape rushing towards them at the speed of an express train. With great presence of mind, and a violent execration, the flyman whipped up his horse and pulled it sharply to the near side towards the little post-office. Quick as he was, he could not prevent an accident. The motor-car, indeed, did not cut the horse and vehicle in two, as had seemed imminent, but merely grazed the off hind-wheel. Its occupant let forth a shout; the flyman had much ado to prevent his horse from bolting; and the motor-car, swerving from the shock, and wrenched round by its driver, dashed across the road, into the brick wall that bounds the curve, and fell with a crash.
“Oh! He’s killed!” cried Sheila, rising to spring from the fly.
“Sit still,” said her brother sternly, holding her down. “Pull up, driver.”
“Easier said nor done,” growled the man, “with the hoss scared out of its wits.”
But in a few seconds he had the horse in hand, and pulled up a few yards down the road. Buckland then helped his sister out, and rushed to see what had become of his unfortunate brother. The landlord, ostler, and boots of the Anchor were already on the spot; the proprietor of the Old King’s Head opposite was running to join his rival; and as Buckland came up, the vicar hastened out of his gate in his shirt-sleeves.
The late occupant of the car, a young fellow of eighteen or thereabouts, turned from contemplating his battered machine to greet his brother.
“Hullo, old man!” he said. “Here’s a pretty mess!”
“H’m! No bones broken, then. Is this your surprise?” said the elder brother in his best ironical manner.
“More or less,” replied George with a rueful grin. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”