Boutigo's van--officially styled _The Vivid_--had just issued from
the Packhorse Yard, Tregarrick, a leisurely three-quarters of an hour
behind its advertised time, and was scaling the acclivity of St.
Fimbar's Street in a series of short tacks. Now and then it halted
to take up a passenger or a parcel; and on these occasions Boutigo
produced a couple of big stones from his hip-pockets and slipped them
under the hind-wheels, while we, his patrons within the van, tilted
at an angle of 15° upon cushions of American cloth, sought for new
centres of gravity, and earnestly desired the summit.
It was on the summit, where the considerate Boutigo gave us a minute's
pause to rearrange ourselves and our belongings, that we slipped into
easy and general talk. An old countryman, with an empty poultry-basket
on his knees, and a battered top-hat on the back of his head, gave us
the cue.
"When Boutigo's father had the accident--that was back in 'fifty-six,'
and it broke his leg an' two ribs--the van started from close 'pon the
knap o' the hill here, and scat itself to bits against the bridge at
the foot just two and a half minutes after."