"Oh, I did, and chucked him the reins; but I didn't see him get on to him. I'll bet the idiot let him go."
"Do him good. He'll probably sit on a gate and pass the time inventing another pill."
"Awful if he's benighted, and all the ghosts of all who swallowed the other pills pop up screeching——!"
"Poor devil; he will have a time of it, with the mole-hills and the thistles, and all those ghosts."
The picture called up was upsetting to the general gravity, and they dispersed, chuckling in the increasing twilight. A division made for the turnpike, with here and there an individual branching courageously into a bridle road; and the larger half halted under a signpost that stretched illegible arms east and west in the lane. It was pleasant to linger a minute or two, lighting up, guessing at their direction. But Rackham kept on.
"That's not your way, Rackham," one man called after him.
The match flickered at his cigar, and went out as he threw it in the road. His horse was walking on with his head down, guided by the rider's knees.
"Right," he shouted back. "It isn't. Is that you, Parsley? I nearly jumped on you, didn't I?"
"You did," said one of the dawdling group. "He has been complaining."
"Well, if a fellow will sit down unexpectedly before you, like a hen under a motor, how can you dodge him? Teach that lazy brute of yours to lift up his hind legs, Parsley. Do you never hit him?"