I will confess that the inhabitants of Egerton eyed us curiously, for Ethel did not look like a carter, and Cherry was very modish, and I was not in the costume of a teamster. And we had to stop at the grocery store to get lemons and things.
Altogether these were not pleasant moments, and I was glad when we turned our backs on Egerton and began the ascent of the hills.
“Th’ ould scut” was a good walker and he went up the hills as if he smelt his dinner ahead of him.
“Think of it,” said Ethel. “The harness hasn’t broken yet!”
“How perfectly delicious to think of it,” said Cherry. “It really looks as if each moment would be its next. How was he ever ingenious enough to tie it all together in that fascinating way? He _must_ be a character. I do wish the horse would stop. So you could start him again.”
“No, you mustn’t wish that, for my profanity is really wicked, while Pat’s is as natural to him as leaves are to trees. It’s part of his growth. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go down and hear him swear after dinner.”
We had come to a level place about a quarter of a mile in extent. The view of the town from which we had left was well worth looking at, and I was just on the point of stopping the horse that we might see the little city perched on the side of a hill and surrounded by green farms and wide expanses of woodland, when “th’ ould scut” stopped of its own accord, began to tremble violently and then broke into a gallop. So quickly did he start that we were all pitched out. By great good fortune not one of us was seriously hurt, although Ethel scraped her wrist, and Cherry bumped her head. I escaped unscathed, and telling the others to follow I started after the horse.
I soon gave up the chase, however, and sitting down on a bank I waited for the others.
“What shall we do? Go back and get a team, or walk. It’s a mile or more,” said I, when they came up.
“Oh, it’s perfectly lovely to walk,” said Cherry, and as Ethel said she felt able, walk we did.
We had gone perhaps two-thirds of the way, looking at every turn for a wrecked cart and a broken legged horse, when we heard the rattle of wheels and saw the horse coming back after us, guided by Pat, himself.
“Oh, ’tis the devil’s own pity, sure it is,” said he when he saw us. “Sure, he had the blind staggers. Why didn’t ye bleed him?” said he.