"It's all right, push along, Jim! He's making for the cinder-heaps, I tell you; I know he is. When the wind's like this, he always makes for there."
Two girls were in the hindmost cart--probably relations of one or other of the gentlemen in front. The one who was acting as Jehu waved her whip impatiently.
"Yes, do let's hurry on! What's the good of hanging about?--we're only wasting time!"
The procession re-started. I do not remember to have ever seen vehicles careering along what, I presume, was a public highway, at such a rate before. You could hardly see the wheels go round. From a purely spectacular point of view it was exhilarating--really!
"Do you call this stag-hunting?" inquired Philipson, his eyes fixed on the rapidly retreating dog-carts.
"No," I said, "I don't."
I was unable to tell what prompted his inquiry. It seemed an uncalled-for one just then. But I could but answer it.
We jogged on for, perhaps, another mile without, it seemed, getting nearer to anything, or to anywhere, when an astonishing thing took place. We were still in the lane, and, judging from appearances, we bade fair to continue in the lane during the remainder of the day. All at once, without giving us the slightest warning of its approach, something, springing over the hedge upon our right, alighted on the road only three or four yards in front of us. It stared at us, and we at it. Not impossibly, we were the more surprised of the two. Certainly it was the first to recover its presence of mind. Swerving to one side, it cleared the hedge upon our left with a degree of agility which did it credit. It was only after it was over that we realised what it was.
"It's the deer!" cried Philipson.
"It's the deer!" I echoed.