Things certainly did not look promising for a nice quiet drive home. With difficulty we coaxed him back into the trap, where he at once began to vent his spleen on the horse in a manner which put that animal’s temper to a grand test.
He further insisted on pulling up at every wayside inn for refreshment, until it became quite evident, if we ever reached London at all, we should certainly not do so till nearly midnight.
I held a hurried consultation with Hawkesbury as to what ought to be done.
“Don’t you think,” suggested I, “we had almost better go on by ourselves and leave him behind?”
“Oh no,” said Hawkesbury; “that would never do. It wouldn’t be honourable.”
It occurred to me it would not be much less honourable than inviting a fellow to a quiet picnic and letting him in for an expedition like this.
“Well,” said I, “suppose we let him drive home, and you and I go back some other way?”
“You forget I’m responsible for the trap. No, we’d better go on as we are. We’ve not come to grief so far. Perhaps, though,” said he, “you’d sooner drive?”
“What’s that about sooner drive?” shouted Whipcord, coming up at this moment. “Who’d sooner drive? You, young Batchelor? All right; off with your coat!” And he threw himself on me in a pugilistic attitude.
After a long delay we got once more under way, the vehicle travelling more unsteadily than ever, and my misgivings as to ever reaching London becoming momentarily more numerous.