A positive gasp of relief went up as the greys, galloping across the wooden bridge, went sturdily up the hill, whilst the coach swayed and rocked from side to side of the rough lane.
"Huzza, huzza!" cried Blakeley, waving his hat; and the shout was taken up with growing fervour as the passengers, looking back, saw half a dozen horsemen come down the Hollow pell-pell.
La! what a crash and what a yell of triumph from the hill-top.
The bridge, strained to its last plank by the coach, had split and broken as the pursuers set horse-hoof on it, thus precipitating two of the foremost riders into the stream.
It was highly regrettable that they could not wait to see the end of the adventure; but the greys were already half-way down the hill, and yonder twinkled the lights of Reading.
It was unlikely that the gentry behind would leave their comrades to drown in a swollen torrent, since there is considerable honour amongst thieves; so the Oxford coach proceeded at a more respectable rate towards the town, thus enabling those within to right and congratulate themselves on being alive.
On the outside a merry chorus was being sung, and one Michael Berrington, much patted on the back, urged to write himself down hero as he drove his panting horses up to the sign of the "Blue Boar."
Even the beetroot-nosed traveller asked leave to shake hands and congratulate the finest young whip he had ever driven behind.
Michael, being no swaggerer, laughed, and passed off the honours with a jest.
But it was good to know that the name of Berrington was being toasted that night in the little inn-parlour of a Reading posting-house.