"Then, if you will take this gentleman's heels we can carry him well enough between us—it's no great distance."
"Easy!" said the Postilion, backing away again, "easy, now—what might be the matter with him, if I might make so bold—ain't dead, is he?"
"Dead—no, fool!" I rejoined angrily.
"Voice like his, too!" muttered the Postilion, backing away still farther; "yes, onnat'ral's the word—strike me dumb if it ain't!"
"Come, will you do as I ask, or must I make you?"
"Why, I ain't got no objection to taking the gent's 'eels, if that's all you ask, though mind ye, if ever I see such damned onnat'ralness as this 'ere in all my days, why—drownd me!"
So, after some delay, I found the overcoat and purse (which latter I thrust into the pocket ere wrapping the garment about him), and lifting my still unconscious antagonist between us, we started for the lane; which we eventually reached, with no little labor and difficulty. Here, more by good fortune than anything else, we presently stumbled upon a chaise and horses, drawn up in the gloom of sheltering trees, in which we deposited our limp burden as comfortably as might be, and where I made some shift to tie up the gash in his brow.
"It would be a fine thing," said the Postilion moodily, as I, at length, closed the chaise door, "it would be a nice thing if 'e was to go a-dying."
"By the looks of him," said I, "he will be swearing your head off in the next ten minutes or so."
Without another word the Postilion set the lanthorn back in its socket, and swung himself into the saddle.