But he might have exploded if he liked, nothing short of an earthquake would have disturbed the vicar.
“I say, hold hard there,” yelled Mr. Dobson, “he’ll kill you.”
“No, he won’t.”
“You’d better get off.”
“Not if I know it.”
“You won’t, then, eh!” struck in Lele—“then here goes—” And, like a flash, over the hedge he went—in short, I may tell you he had galloped a field over, cleared a gate, forded a stream, broken through a copse, and then, Tally ho! he was with the hounds, close alongside the whip, and in a few minutes stood with his master, who was perspiring and mopping his face with his handkerchief, abashed at the attention his presence called forth, and stammering his thanks to the master of the hounds who handed him the brush.
“Allow me to congratulate you, good sir,” he said.
“Now, just look here,” interrupted Lele—only nobody noticed him—“that brush belongs to me. I followed the hounds, and as I couldn’t throw the vicar off, of course I had to bring him—much against his will—a fact, I assure you. Just stick that brush behind my ear, please. Why, Kiddy, is that you?”
“Lily!”