"I vote we get a carriage of sorts," suggested Osborne. "We'll be properly dished if we don't. My heel's galled, and it's still some way to go."
Making the best of his limited knowledge of Spanish, Osborne contrived to hire, for the sum of five pesetas, a ramshackle conveyance with solid wooden wheels and drawn by a couple of oxen. It was the only vehicle available, but the villainous-looking driver assured his hirers that it was a swift means of transport.
The cart set off in excellent style—"Under forced draught," Osborne explained—but before it was clear of the village the swaying, jolting conveyance had settled down to a funeral pace. When Osborne expostulated, the driver stopped to offer a lengthy explanation of the dangerous character of the road, promising to make up for the lost time directly the comparatively level Neutral Ground was reached.
Anxiously the Lieutenant consulted his watch, glanced at the setting sun, and mentally measured the distance between him and the frowning Rock, which appeared much nearer than it actually was.
Suddenly the cart gave an extra heavy lurch. The oxen stumbled; while, to the accompaniment of a rending crash and the angry oaths of the driver, the off-side wheel was wrenched from its axle. The next instant Osborne and Webb found themselves lying in the long rank grass by the side of the cart-track.
"Excelsior, old bird!" exclaimed the Lieutenant as the twain recovered their feet. "Look alive, there's no time to be lost!"
Paying the Spaniard his five pesetas, although he had not completed his part of the contract, the two officers hastened towards their goal, regardless of the forcible demands of the driver that his late fares would contribute towards the damage done to the crazy vehicle.
Nearer and nearer came the "Lines", until the Neutral Ground was less than four hundred yards away. Then, to the chums' consternation, a gun boomed forth in the still evening air. It was the signal that until daybreak the gates of Gibraltar were closed so that none should enter or depart.
"A fine old business!" declared Osborne. "It's no use going on. We'd stand a chance of being fired upon by the Spanish guards, and a still greater one of being winged by the British sentries. They were alert enough in pre-war days, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they'll be doubly sharp now."
"Suppose the best thing to do is to return to Mayorga and get a bed at the inn," suggested Webb. "My word, there'll be a row for overstaying our leave!"