"Why, who ever heard of your writing a novel?"
"I did not say write a novel—I said publish a novel."
"Well, who is to write it?" I enquired.
"That's the secret," he answered; "and if that isn't one of Pickford's vans, I'll tell you"——
The mare kept up her speed; and, looming before us, apparently filling up the whole road, was one of the moving castles, drawn by eight horses, that, compared to other vehicles, are like elephants moving about among a herd of deer.
"Is there room to pass?" asked Jack, pulling the right rein with all his might.
"Scarcely," I said, "the post is at the side of the road."
"Take the whip," said Jack, "and just when we get up, give her a cut over the left ear."
In dread silence we sat watching the tremendous gallop. Nearer and nearer we drew to the waggon, and precisely at the right time Jack pulled the mare's bridle, and I cut her over the ear. Within a hairbreadth of the post on one side, and the van on the other, we cut our bright way through.
"This is rather pleasant than otherwise," said Jack, breathing freely; "don't you think so?"