It was also settled that the crew of the governess-cart should have an early cold lunch and start an hour before the cars; thus (it was calculated) we should all arrive at the cricket-ground fairly well together. This did not take Haynes' driving into account. We started from the door at a very satisfactory pace, probably because Bucephalus, the fat pony, objected to the enthusiasm of our send-off. When we reached the road he dropped into an amble so gentle that we decided that he had really been running away in the drive. Next, taking advantage of an almost imperceptible upward slope, he began to walk. Haynes clucked at him and flapped the reins, but this had no effect beyond steering Bucephalus into the left-hand ditch.
"I thought you said you knew the moves," remarked Ansell. "Surely this is wrong?"
"The bally beast's lopsided," said Haynes with heat. "One side of his mouth's hard and the other soft."
"The difficulty being," I suggested as we lurched across the road into the other ditch, "to discover which is which.... Now you're straight. We'd better trot. It's only a one-day match."
Haynes used the ancient whip, which had as much effect as tickling a rhinoceros with a feather.
"Goad him with a penknife," suggested Ansell unfeelingly.
"There must be some way," said Haynes. "Because they do trot, you know."
"Speaking as one ignorant amateur to another," I asked, "isn't the right thing to pull gently on the reins and then slacken? You go on doing it till the animal gets your meaning. Try it."
Haynes tried it, and Bucephalus stopped dead. Repetition of the treatment simply produced a tendency to back.
"For heaven's sake don't lose any of the ground we've gained," said Ansell. "Let's get on, if only at a walk."