The cart was empty, but there was a sack-like thing, with a wide-awake hat on the top, rolling in the one behind.
“Holloo, my man!” shouted Sir Moses, with the voice of a Stentor.
The wide-awake merely nodded to the motion of the cart.
“Holloo, I say!” roared he, still louder.
An extended arm was thrown over the side of the cart, and the wide-awake again nodded as before.
“The beggar’s asleep!” muttered Sir Moses, taking the butt-end of his whip, and poking the somnambulist severely in the stomach.
A loud grunt, and with a strong smell of gin, as the monster changed his position, was all that answered the appeal.
“The brute’s drunk,” gasped Sir Moses, indignant at having wasted so much time in waiting for him.
The sober grey then made a well-rounded turn to the right, followed by the one in the rear, leaving our friend enveloped in many more shades of darkness than he was when he first designed him coming. Night had indeed about closed in, and lights began to appear in cottages and farm-houses that sparsedly dotted the hill side.
“Well, here’s a pretty go,” said Sir Moses, remounting the dogcart, and gathering up the reins; “I’ll just give the mare her choice,” continued he, touching her with the whip, and letting her go. The sensible animal took the level road to the left, and Sir Moses’s liberality was at first rewarded by an attempted trot along it, which, however, soon relaxed into a walk. The creaking, labouring vehicle shook and rolled with the concussion of the ruts.