The liquor was brought to the chaise-cart by a boy, with a head of hair resembling strongly one of the now popular patent chimney sweeping apparatus.
Bill took his half to a nicety, and handed the remainder to his companion, who then bumped the little pewter measure upon the boy’s head till his eyes flashed fire.
Bill whistled to the horse, and with loud laughter, the two ruffians galloped up the Hampstead-road, which was then as innocent of “Cottages of Gentility” as is the Lake of Windermere.
Up the hill they went with but slightly lessened speed, nor stopped till they were quite clear of all the little suburban houses that here and there dotted the road, and within about half a mile of the village of Hampstead itself. They then turned down Haverstock Hill, which was quite free from buildings, and by a route which avoided the village, they came upon the verge of the heath.
“I think this will do,” remarked Bill.
“I think so too,” said the other. “How precious dark it is, to be sure.”
“You may say that. I’m blowed if I can see the horse’s head. Woa! Woa!”
They both now alighted, and led the horse towards a thick hedge, skirting a plantation, near the large house lately occupied by Lady Byron. Then Bill let down the tail-board of the cart, and laying hold of Jacob Gray by the heels, he dragged him out, and letting his head come with a hard bump against the ground, which was by no means likely to improve his faculties.
They then pushed him along with their feet, till he lay completely under the hedge, and could not come to any harm from a chance vehicle or horseman.
“Well,” remarked Bill, “I think we have done that job handsomely.”