"I will go on the box," said Crotchet.
"Very well," said Green, "but be mindful of your own safety, Crotchet."
"All's right. There ain't any more o' my sort in London, and I know I am rather a valuable piece o' goods. Has anybody got the rope ready for the lady?"
"Here you are," said a man, "I have one."
"You get up behind then," said Crotchet, "for of course you know we shall soon want you."
"Yes, I will. That's right! It's all right, friends. I am to get up behind with the rope. Here's the rope!"
"Three cheers for the rope!" cried somebody, and the cheers were given with deafening violence. What will not a mob give three cheers for—ay, or any number of cheers you like to name? A piece of poor humanity in tinsel and fine linen, called a king or queen—a popular cry—a murderess—a rope—anything will suffice. Surely, Mr. Crotchet, you know something of the people!
"Now," said Crotchet to the coachman, "are you as bold as brass, and as strong as an iron file?"
The coachman looked puzzled, but Mr. Crotchet pursued his queries.
"Will these 'osses, if they is frightened a bit, cut along quick?"