In a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. The front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer’s shop, the other into a chemist’s window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed—or appeared to change—to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin.
But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it—truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana’s case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.
At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable Number 666—we are not quite sure of what division—in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. He was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in England!
Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer, for Di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming—
“Oh! I have killed him! I’ve killed him!” and burst into tears.
“No, my little lady,” said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, “you’ve not quite done for me, though you’ve come nearer the mark than any man has ever yet accomplished. Come, now, what can I do for you? You’re not hurt, I hope?”
This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident.
“Hurt? oh! no, I’m not hurt,” exclaimed Di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of Number 666; “but I’m quite sure you must be hurt—awfully. I’m so sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
This also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while Number 666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least—only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone.
“Wot does she mean by knockin’ of ’im down?” asked a small butcher’s boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker’s boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning.