The owner of the voice was the driver of the cart, and the tones and looks with which he made the remark were anything but unflattering to Richardson.
“It was a close squeak through the gate,” said the latter, “not six inches either side; and if it hadn’t been for the ruts we should have kept up all right till now. I say, do you think the trap’s damaged, or the mare?”
The mare was lying very comfortably on her side taking a good breath after her race, and not offering to resume her feet. As for the waggonette it was lying equally comfortably on its side, with one wheel up in the air.
“Shaft broken,” said the driver, “that’s all.”
“That’s all!” said Dick, dolefully, “we shall catch it, and no mistake.”
The man grinned.
“You can’t expect to play games of that sort without scratching the varnish off,” said he. “No fault of yours you haven’t got your necks broke.”
“Suppose we try to get her up?” said Richardson, looking as if this last information had very little comfort in it.
So among them they unharnessed the mare and managed to disengage her from the vehicle and get her to her feet.
“She’s all sound,” said the man, after a careful overhauling.