It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who cried "Well played," as the greys leapt forward under the light touch of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger—richer by many a coin of the realm—to pass the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any devil-may-care Oxford scholar.
And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but sweating greys had never been driven before.
Those within the coach vowed that their last hour had come, and clung together, the women in hysterics, and the men swearing as a sudden jolt would fling them one against the other, whilst shrieks and groans told of bumps and bruises manifold.
Outside, however, things wore a merrier aspect.
The Oxford grads were enjoying themselves, trolling out jocular songs as though they sat to see the finish of the punch-bowl at a College wine, rather than a likely finish in a neighbouring ditch with a broken neck or two thrown in.
But the stranger with the nose and valise neither sang nor swore, but sat behind Michael, urging him to quicken his steeds' pace again and again, in tones which were inflected with growing anxiety.
But Michael needed no urging.
He was at least half an Irishman and was bred for a sportsman; moreover, he meant winning that race.
Faith! those inside might split, slit, and confound themselves and others till they were hoarse, the coachman, pinioned firmly by Nat and Horace Goulden, might entreat and implore for pity on horses and passengers, but Michael heeded nothing of them all.
High above the shrieking wind and creaking of tossing boughs overhead rose his strong, young voice, whooping on the straining, panting steeds as they dashed downhill at a gallop.