The delightful picnic to which I had looked forward with such
satisfaction had certainly not come off as I expected. And it was not
_yet_ over, for the drive home under the conduct of Mr Whipcord
promised to be the most exciting portion of the whole day.
As long as we were in the country roads the unsteadiness of our Jehu did
not so much matter, for he was sober enough to keep the horse upon the
road, though hardly fit to steer him past other vehicles. However, it
was marvellous how we did get on. What hairbreadth escapes we had! It
was useless attempting to remonstrate with the fellow. He was in that
quarrelsome and mischievous humour which would brook no protest. Once,
very soon after starting, in passing a country cart we as nearly as
possible upset against it, a misadventure which Whipcord immediately set
down as a deliberate insult intended for himself, and which nothing
would satisfy him but to avenge then and there.
He leaped down off the dogcart, heedless of what became of the horse,
and, throwing off his coat, shouted to the countryman to "Come on!" an
invitation which the countryman answered with a crack of his whip which
made the doughty hero leap as high into the air as he had ever done in
his life.
As might be expected, this incident did not tend to pacify the outraged
feelings of the tipsy Whipcord, who, disappointed of his vengeance on
the countryman, was most pressing in his invitations to Hawkesbury or me
or both of us to dismount and "have it out." Indeed, he was so eager
for satisfaction that he all but pulled me off my seat on to the road,
and would have done so quite had not the horse given a start at the
moment, which put me out of his reach, and nearly upset him in the dust.
Things certainly did not look promising for a nice quiet drive home.
With difficulty we coaxed him back into the trap, where he at once began
to vent his spleen on the horse in a manner which put that animal's
temper to a grand test.
He further insisted on pulling up at every wayside inn for refreshment,
until it became quite evident, if we ever reached London at all, we
should certainly not do so till nearly midnight.
I held a hurried consultation with Hawkesbury as to what ought to be
done.
"Don't you think," suggested I, "we had almost better go on by ourselves
and leave him behind?"
"Oh no," said Hawkesbury; "that would never do. It wouldn't be
honourable."
It occurred to me it would not be much less honourable than inviting a
fellow to a quiet picnic and letting him in for an expedition like this.
"Well," said I, "suppose we let him drive home, and you and I go back
some other way?"
"You forget I'm responsible for the trap. No, we'd better go on as we
are. We've not come to grief so far. Perhaps, though," said he, "you'd
sooner drive?"
"What's that about sooner drive?" shouted Whipcord, coming up at this
moment. "Who'd sooner drive? You, young Batchelor? All right; off
with your coat!" And he threw himself on me in a pugilistic attitude.
After a long delay we got once more under way, the vehicle travelling
more unsteadily than ever, and my misgivings as to ever reaching London
becoming momentarily more numerous.
How we ever got back I can't imagine, unless it was that after a time
Whipcord finally dropped the reins and allowed the horse to find its own
way home. He certainly thought he was driving, but I fancy the truth
was that one of the ostlers on the road, seeing his condition, had
cunningly looped the reins round the front rail of the trap, so that,
drive all he would, he could not do much more harm than if he was
sitting idle.
At length the lateness of the hour and the frequent lights announced
that London must be near. It was fortunate it was so late, or we should
certainly have come to grief in the first crowded street. As it was,
Whipcord had already got command of the reins again, as the sudden jerks
and shies of the horse testified.
My impulse was to avoid the danger by quietly jumping down from my seat
and leaving the other two to proceed alone. But somehow it seemed a
shabby proceeding to leave Hawkesbury in the lurch, besides which, even
if I had overcome that scruple, the seat was so high that at the
unsteady rate we were going I would run considerable risk by jumping.
So I determined to hold on and hope for the best.
We got safely down Oxford Street, thanks to its emptiness, and were just
proceeding towards Holborn, when Whipcord gave his horse a sudden turn
down a side street to the right.
"Where are you going?" I cried; "it's straight on."
He pulled up immediately, and bidding Hawkesbury hold the reins, pulled
off his coat for the twentieth time, and invited me to come and have it
out on the pavement.
"Don't be a fool," said Hawkesbury; "drive on now, there's a good
fellow."
"What does he want to tell me which way to drive for?" demanded the
outraged charioteer.
"He didn't mean to offend you--did you, Batchelor? Drive on now,
Whipcord, and get out of this narrow street."
With much persuasion Whipcord resumed his coat and seized the reins.
"Thinks I don't know the way to drive," he growled. "I'll teach him!"
I had been standing up, adding my endeavours to Hawkesbury's to pacify
our companion, when he suddenly lashed furiously at the horse. The
wretched animal, already irritated beyond endurance, gave a wild bound
forward, which threw me off my feet, and before I could put out a hand
to save myself pitched me backwards into the road.
I was conscious of falling with a heavy crash against the kerb with my
arm under me, and of seeing the dogcart tearing down the street. Then
everything seemed dark, and I remember nothing more.
When I did recover consciousness I was lying in a strange room on a
strange bed. It took an effort to remember what had occurred. But a
dull pain all over reminded me, and gradually a more acute and intense
pain on my left side. I tried to move my arm, but it was powerless, and
the exertion almost drove back my half-returning senses.
"Lie quiet," said a voice at my side, "the doctor will be here
directly."
The voice was somehow familiar; but in my weak state I could not
remember where I had heard it. And the exertion of turning my head to
look was more than I could manage.
I lay there, I don't know how long, with half-closed eyes, seeing
nothing, hearing nothing, and feeling only the pain and an occasional
grateful passing of a wet sponge across my forehead.
Then I became aware of more people in the room and a man's voice
saying--
"How was it?"
"I found him lying on the pavement. I think he must have been thrown
out of a vehicle."
That voice I had certainly heard, but where?
"It's the arm--broken!" said the voice.
"Ah," said the doctor, leaning over me and touching me lightly near the
elbow.