'Why, Phoebe,' said De Witt, 'what are you driving for? Waldegraves is not more than a mile and a half off, and you might have walked the distance well enough.'
'I've sprained my ankle, and I can't walk. I must go to Waldegraves, I have a message there to my aunt, so Isaac Mead lent me the horse.'
'If you can't drive, you may do worse than sprain your ankle, you may break your neck.'
'That is what I am afraid of, George. The boy was to have driven me, but he is so excited, I suppose, about the man-of-war coming in, that he has run off. There! take care!'
'Can't you go on now?' asked De Witt, letting go the bridle. Immediately the horse began to jib and rear.
'You are lugging at his mouth fit to break his jaw, Phoebe. No wonder the beast won't go.'
'Am I, George? It is the fright. I don't understand the horse. O dear! O dear! I shall never get to Waldegraves by myself.'
'Let the horse go, but don't job his mouth in that way.'
'There he is turning round. He will go home again. O George! save me.'
'You are pulling him round, of course he will turn if you drag at the rein.'