The
wretch uppermost is the coachman."
"I might part them, perhaps," said Desmond dubiously. "Of course I will
try, ma'am."
"Sure I wouldn't trust 'em, mamma," called the younger lady from the
horses' heads. "The man is too drunk to drive."
"I fear 'tis so. 'Tis not our own man, sir. As we returned today from a
visit to Taplow our coachman was trampled by a horse at Slough, and my
husband stayed with him--an old and trusty servant--till he could consult
a surgeon. We found a substitute at the inn to drive us home. But the
wretch brought a bottle; he drank with the footman all along the road;
and now, as you see, they are at each other's throats in their drunken
fury. Sure we shall never get home in time for the rout we are bid to."
"Shall I drive you to London, ma'am?" said Desmond, "'Twere best to leave
the men to settle their differences."
"But can you drive?"
"Oh, yes," replied Desmond, with a smile. "I am used to horses."
"Then I beg you to oblige us. Yes, let the wretches fight themselves
sober.
"Phyllis, this gentleman will drive us; come."
The girl--a fair, rosy cheeked, merry-eyed damsel of fifteen or
thereabouts--left the horses' heads and entered the carriage with her
mother. Desmond made a rapid examination of the harness to see that all
was right; then he mounted the box and drove off. The noise of the
rumbling wheels penetrated the besotted intelligence of the struggling
men; they scrambled to their feet, looked wildly about them, and set off
in pursuit.
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