To reckon your chickens before thay are hatched.
“Well, I must be moving,” said the Doctor at last, looking at his watch; “how do you get home, Mr. Hurst?”
“Bless us! near nine o’clock,” said Joe, following the Doctor’s example; “oh, I ride myself, and my friend here talks of going behind.”
“Better not ride double, the night’s dark,” said the Doctor, hoisting on his overcoat with Peter’s help. “If he likes to take his luck in my gig, I can put him down at your gate. What do you say, Sir?”
I thankfully accepted; for I didn’t at all like the notion of riding behind Joe on the chestnut, and I can’t think how I could ever have been such a fool as to say I would do it. The Doctor had two bright lamps to his gig, which gave us glimpses of the closed booths and camping places of the people who were going to stay on the hill all night, as we drove out of the Castle. I suggested that it must be very bad for the people sleeping out up there.
“For their health?” said he, “not a bit of it, on a fine night like this—do ’em good; I wish they always slept so healthily.”
“I didn’t quite mean that, Sir!”
“Oh, for their morals? Well, I don’t know that there’s much harm done. I’m sorry to say they’re used to crowding—and, after all, very few but the owners of the booths, and the regular tramps, stay up here. Didn’t you see how quiet every thing was?”
I said I had noticed this; and then he began asking me about the sports, for he had only got on to the hill late in the afternoon; and when we came to the wrestling and backsword play, I asked him whether he thought they did any harm.