And now dread Rendibus appears in view! There was no mistaking its tortuous sinuosities, even if the crowd on the bridge had not kept vociferating, “The bruk! the bruk!”
“The bruk be hanged!” growled Cuddy, hardening his heart for the conflict. “The bruk be hanged!” repeated he, eyeing its varying curvature, adding, “if ever I joke with any man under the rank of a duke again, may I be capitally D’d. Ass that I was,” continued he, “to take a liberty with this confounded Frenchman, who cares no more for his neck than a frog. Dashed, if ever I joke with any man under the rank of a prince of the blood royal,” added he, weaving his eyes up and down the brook for a place.
“Go at it full tilt!” now roars Sir Moses from the bridge; “go at it full tilt for the honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire!”
“Honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire be hanged!” growled Cuddy; “who’ll pay for my neck if I break it, I wonder!”
“Cut along, old cock of vax!” now cries Monsieur, grinning up on the grey. “Cut along, old cock of vax, or I’ll be into your pocket.”
“Shove him along!” roars stentorian-lunged Gallon, standing erect in his stirrups, and waving Monsieur on with his hat. “Shove him along!” repeats he, adding, “he’ll take it in his stride.”
Mayfly defers to the now-checked General, who, accustomed to be ridden freely, lays back his vexed ears for a kick, as Monsieur hurries up. Cuddy still contemplates the scene, anxious to be over, but dreading to go. “Nothing so nasty as a brook,” says he; “never gets less, but may get larger.” He then scans it attentively. There is a choice of ground, but it is choice of evils, of which it is difficult to choose the least when in a hurry.
About the centre are sedgy rushes, indicative of a bad taking off, while the weak place next the ash involves the chance of a crack of the crown against the hanging branch, and the cattle gap higher up may be mended with wire rope, or stopped with some awkward invisible stuff. Altogether it is a trying position, especially with the eyes of England upon him from the bridge and road.
“Oh, go at it, mun!” roars Sir Moses, agonised at his hesitation; “Oh, go at it, mun! It’s nothin’ of a place!”
“Isn’t it,” muttered Cuddy; “wish you were at it instead of me.” So saying, he gathers his horse together in an undecided sort of way, and Monsieur charging at the moment, lands Cuddie on his back in the field and himself in the brook.