The man in black looked at his watch.
The coachman pulled out a handful of silver, and began to count out a portion, preparatory to offering to return the woman her fare if she would get down—when a cheering voice hailed him from above.
“It’s all right, Tom—jump up—the lady’s creeping into the boot.”
“She won’t like that, I guess,” muttered Tom to himself, but in a second the money jingled back into his pocket, and he was on his box in the twinkling of an eye. Away went the coach over the brow of the hill, and began to spin down the descent with an impetus increasing at every yard. The wheels rattled—the chains jingled—the horse-shoes clattered—and the maid in the boot shrieked like a maid in Bedlam.
“Poor thing!” ejaculated the stout gentleman.
The little man grinned—villanously like an ape.
The man in black pretended to be asleep.
Meanwhile her screams increased in volume, and ascended in pitch—interrupted only by an occasional “oh Lord!” and equivalent ejaculations. It was piteous to hear her; but there was no help for it. To stop the coach was impossible; it had pressed upon the horses till, in spite of all the coachman’s exertions, they broke into a gallop, and it required his utmost efforts to keep them together. An attempt to pull up would have upset us, as sure as fate; luckily for us all Tom did not make the experiment, and the Chronometer, after running down one hill and half way up another, was stopped without accident.
“How’s the lady?” asked the stout man, anxiously thrusting his head and shoulders out at one window, whilst I acted the same part at the other; and, as the sufferer got down on my side of the coach, my curiosity was first gratified. Never was figure more forlorn: her face was as pale as ashes, and her hair hung about it in all directions through heat and fright—her eyes as crazy as her hair, and her mouth wide open.
“How’s the lady?” repeated the stout gentleman.