"It's a runaway!" cried the herdic driver, giving himself the lie by a savage snap of his whip. The officer was in no trim for a spurt, so he fell behind puffing. Still they bumped on, till Aronson's anxiety mastered him and he rapped at the window for attention. The driver stupidly reined up.
"Go on!" cried the passenger, and the whip-lash circled once more with a crack. They were out on the long bridge to Oxford now, and the fugitive could not be far ahead.
"Hello!" shouted the driver. The jehu in front turned his head.
"Haul up!" he hailed.
The driver in front obeyed and the two herdics were soon abreast, Aronson getting a dusty toss in his impatience to get out. As he picked himself up, a great fat man put his head out of the other herdic window and began to ask the cause of the detention.
"Is Mrs. Arnold in there?" inquired Aronson, putting his head into the herdic, just by the fat passenger's.
"Mrs. Arnold? What Mrs. Arnold? Take your head out, you impudent,—drive away, you——" cried the fat passenger, settling back on the cushions which he almost filled with the breadth of his back. Aronson was left standing alone on the road, puzzling his wits what to do.
"You lost the right carriage," he said.
"I followed the one you pointed out," answered the driver, surlily.
"Well, take me back."