“Well, that's about the fact,” said Drysdale; “but it isn't so bad as you think. We had no lamps, and it was an uncommon bad night for running by holloas.”
“But a first-rate night for running by scent,” broke in Blake; “the fellow leant against me until he made his exit, and I'd have backed myself to have hit the scent again half-a-mile off if the wind had only been right.”
“He may have broken his neck,” said Tom.
“Can a fellow sing with a broken neck?” said Drysdale; “hanged if I know! But don't I tell you, we heard him maundering on somewhere or other? And when Blake shouted, he rebuked him piously out of the pitch darkness, and told him to go home and repent. I nearly dropped off the box laughing at them; and then he 'uplifted his testimony,' as he called it, against me, for driving a horse called Satan. I believe he's a ranting methodist spouter.”
“I tried hard to find him,” said Blake; “For I should dearly have liked to kick him safely into the ditch.”
“At last Black Will himself couldn't have held Satan another minute. So Blake scrambled up, and away we came, and knocked into college at one for a finish: the rest you know.”
“Well, you've had a pretty good day of it,” said Tom, who had been hugely amused; “but I should feel nervous about the help, if I were you.”
“Oh, he'll come to no grief, I'll be bound,” said Drysdale, “but what o'clock is it?”
“Three,” said Blake, looking at his watch and getting up; “time to turn in.”
“The first time I ever heard you say that,” said Drysdale.