THE OFF HUB
As the dogcart left the park gates, a remark that the coachman had made
to Larry Lyburn that morning recurred to Patsy’s mind.
Larry had drawn the cart out of the coach-house for inspection. Dan, the
coachman, had been passing, and Dan, who had the eye of an eagle for
faults, had made a remark on the hub of the off wheel.
“There’s a crack in the hub of the off wheel you could put your nose
into,” said Dan.
“Crack in your eye,” said Larry; only it wasn’t “eye” he said.
That was all. Dan passed on with the bucket of water he was carrying,
and Larry turned the dogcart cushions to air in the bit of winter sun
that was peeping over the stable roof.
Patsy, who had overheard the remark and Larry’s reply, scarcely gave the
matter a second thought. He no more doubted the opinion of Larry on a
hub than a country doctor would doubt the opinion of Sir Frederick
Treves on an appendix. That is to say, Larry in his sober senses. The
question troubling the mind of Patsy now was whether Larry’s senses were
in a sober frame when he flung his diagnosis as to the condition of the
off hub at Dan’s head in the form of an unprintable retort. In other
words and plainer English, he was wondering at what o’clock had Larry
begun at the whisky.
Mr Fanshawe had given Patsy the sovereign on account to hand to Larry
the previous night, and now Patsy remembered, with a chill at the heart,
having seen little Billy Meehan, an anæmic sprite of seven, a hanger-on
and errand-runner at the Castle Knock inn, passing the kitchen door
quite early that morning carrying something wrapped up in a cloth,
something that might have been a bottle of spirits.
“O Dicky,” sighed Miss Lestrange, “is it a dream—are we really together?
I can’t believe it is true.”
They had passed the sleeping village and the row of poplar trees at its
entrance, and the road was ringing to the merry sound of Fly-by-night’s
hoofs.
They passed Barn-End, a tiny hamlet, a spore cast-off by Castle Knock;
lying two miles and a half towards Tullagh.
“Only a bit over tin miles now, sir,” said Patsy from behind.
“Ten Irish miles,” said Mr Fanshawe, looking at his watch; “and it’s now
twenty-five minutes past two; we’ve lots of time. There’s no fear of
those two old carriage horses overtaking us, is there, Patsy?”
“No, sir; but if the General’s able to kick sinse into Larry they won’t
be far behind. Larry can make ’em go at a gallop, and wanst they’re
started they’ll go all day.”
“That’s Castle Connell to the right, sir,” said Patsy after a long
interval broken only by the eloquence of Fly-by-night’s hoofs. “Six
miles and a quarter, as the crow flies, from Glen Druid. We’re near
half-way.”
“Patsy reminds me of those advertisements one sees on the railway
lines,” whispered Violet, snuggling up close to Mr Fanshawe. “You know
the ones, Beecham’s pills, twenty miles to London.”
“Are you warm, dear?” asked her companion.
“Quite,” she murmured, drawing the mole-skin cloak more tightly around
her.
The great idle moon lolling over the hills cast Fly-by-night’s shadow
before her. She had warmed to her work now, and was going like a dream
under the hand of a master and lover of horses.
“Oh! look at the moon,” sighed Violet, turning for a moment in her seat
and looking backwards. “I wish this could last forever.”
“I say,” cried out Dicky, heedless of this wish, which the gods no doubt
had overheard, “the cart’s going a bit rocky. Anything wrong with it, do
you think, Patsy?”
“I hope not, sir,” said Patsy. “I heard Dan, the coachman say something
to Larry about wan of the ‘hubs.’”
“What did he say?” asked Mr Fanshawe.
“He was going across the yard wid a bucket of water, and Larry was
clanin’ the cart, and Dan, he says, ‘Larry,’ says he, ‘what are you
doin’?’ ‘Clanin’ the cart,’ says Larry. ‘And what are you clanin’ it
for?’ he asks. ‘To make it tidy,’ says Larry. ‘Sure, get off to some
other job,’ says Dan. ‘The ould cart has to go to the coach-builders for
there’s a crack in that “hub” you could stick your nose in; and where’s
your eyes? says he; ‘get off and be doin’ your harness, and let the
coach-builders clane the trap if it’s worth clanin’, for it’s my
opinion, he says, ‘it ought to have been condimned long ago. Lighting
fires is all it’s fit for.’”
“Good heavens!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Sure, I trusted Larry, sir,” said Patsy. “He knows more thin Dan about
the traps and the harness any day in the——Holy Mary! there’s the wheel
goin’.”
“Hold tight,” cried Mr Fanshawe.
“We’re over,” cried Patsy.
A perfectly superfluous statement delivered from the ditch where he lay
with Miss Lestrange’s dressing-bag on his chest. You could have heard
the sound of the smash half a mile down the silent road.
--------------
“I’m all right,” murmured the girl. “Where am I? O Dicky!”
She was sitting on the road against the hedge bank. The broken-down
dogcart with one wheel off lay before her, also Fly-by-night on her
side, with Patsy seated on the mare’s head.
“It’s all right,” said Mr Fanshawe, “it’s only a smash up. Nothing
matters as long as you aren’t hurt.”
She gazed at the ruins before her, and took in the whole extent of the
catastrophe, as did Mr Fanshawe. The position was horrible. Any moment
the pursuer might arrive, and then what was to be done? He could not
fight his uncle, there was nothing possible except ignominious
capitulation. When you are successful in an affair of this kind you are
an object of admiration to every one, especially the women. To run away
with a woman is the only excuse for a man ever running away; let the
woman be subtracted and the excuse is gone, and the man is an object of
derision to every one—especially the women.
Miss Lestrange felt this as keenly as her companion.
“Dicky,” she cried, “I’m all right. Do something. Get the horse up. Is
the dogcart _quite_ broken?”
“Quite,” said Mr Fanshawe. He unbuckled the straps of the harness, freed
the broken shafts, and got Fly-by-night on her feet with Patsy’s help.
“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “isn’t there any place round here we could
get a cart?”
“Nowhere, sir,” said Patsy; “the nearest farm is five mile away, and the
only cart you could get there is a hay-cart.”
Mr Fanshawe climbed on the bank. There was not a habitation to be seen
anywhere, fields, fields, and nothing but fields, waste lands, clumps of
trees. The high-road to Castle Knock looked like a twisted white ribbon.
There was not even a breath of wind, not a sound under the silent moon.
He could hear the watch in his pocket ticking. He took it out, it
pointed to five minutes to three.
“How far is it to Tullagh, Patsy?” he asked.
“Seven miles and more,” replied Patsy in a heart-broken voice.
“We’re done,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Look, sir,” said Patsy.
He was pointing in the direction of Tullagh. Down the road, towards
them, was coming a reeling object, which, in the moonlight, looked now
like a dromedary, now like a giant.
“What on earth is it?” cried Miss Lestrange.
“Begob, I don’t know, miss,” replied Patsy, “but whatever it is, it’s
drunk.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------