Cheriton stood to watch and to laugh sardonically. The marionette had begun to answer to the strings in delightful fashion. He promised to excel all anticipation.
In the meantime Young Blood was careering away like the wind. Faster and faster it went. It was higher, deeper, richer, more exhilarating than any of the old Widdiford madnesses. It was in vain that the British public looked pained and the London police looked important. This was its crowded hour of glorious life; and if there was to be an end to all things, there were two persons at least who felt that, after all, the cosmos had done very well to get itself invented.
However, this sort of thing cannot last forever. The nondescript soon began to display signs of distress.
“Bellows to mend,” said Jim.
The glorious Miss Perry had difficulty in checking her chestnut.
“Why,” said she, “he is almost as strong as your papa’s pedigree hunter.”
“We’ve done a record from the Red House to the Parsonage, I think,” said Jim.
Even when they turned to ride back their high spirits met with no check. The crowded glorious hour continued, if pitched in a less emotional key. Jim’s nondescript was no longer equal to the fine careless rapture.
“Goose Girl,” said Jim, “do you know I have made a resolution?”
“Have you, Jim?” said Miss Perry.