"I'LL GIVE YOU £1,000 FOR HIM."
"What now?" whispered Andrew P. Hay.
"We must be off at once and cover as many miles as we can before daylight," whispered Bowes.
"But," objected Mr. Hay, "this is immoral!"
All the refined morality of the ancient Centaurs welled up in him.
"Pooh!" whispered Bowes. "Meaning no offence, sir; but it's got to be done!"
At this moment the sailor woke and rose to see what was going on. Now, gentleman and man of honour as Mr. Hay was down to the waist, the instinct of battle and self-preservation in his equine portion instantly gained the ascendency in those moments when action was called for; and it was with feelings of the most unfeigned horror and regret that he felt himself backing toward the unhappy sailor and taking up a favourable position for an effective kick.
"Bowes!" he said, in an agony of apprehension. "Quick! Don't you see what I'm doing? For Heaven's sake give me a cut over the quarters! Here—pull my head up, so that I can't lash out!"
But it was too late; the equine nature situated in the hind-quarters had prevailed: there was an end of the sailor: Andrew P. Hay hid his face in his hands with a bitter sob, and suffered himself to be led out and mounted in silence.