Simultaneously he lifted his foot from the break, uttered an exotic, mournful cry, and for the first time brought his long lash across his horses—Tod first, then the wheelers; and as the three shot down the remnant of the slope, he kept Tod's traces tight while the heavy load at their tails compelled the pair to run from it for their lives.
What he had foretold befell; the men in the body of the carriage broke into a boyish cheer of delight, which drowned for all his passengers but Amaryllis the words of that stream of polyglot invective, exhortation and endearment which the driver poured out over his cattle; a lost jeremiad, for Dick says he does not remember, and Amaryllis that, though she heard it all, there was much that she did not understand and a great deal more which nothing on earth will ever induce her to repeat.
As they rattled across the little stone bridge, Dick glanced to his left at the Hangman's Oak, the motor-cycle and the two men; saw foolish, innocent grins break through the suspicion on the two bad faces, and, jovially lifting his whip, waved them a salute.
In response, the two right hands came out of their pockets, forgetting for that moment what they left there.
The circling lash took each wheeler in turn, while the load still ran light behind them, and Tod, honest worker, answered relief with fresh effort.
By the time that the hill had reduced them to a straining walk, Gallowstree Dip was out of sight, and Dick let out his breath with a little hissing noise between the teeth. Amaryllis heard it and understood.
"Dad!" she said.
"Ay, lass?" he answered.
"Those two men," she said, lowering her voice and speaking in her natural manner: "as we were coming down to the bridge they pushed up their goggles, and their faces were beastly—just as if they meant," she whispered, "to kill somebody."
Dick nodded.