Part 4 (1/2)

And above all the cackling and hysterical shrieks of the women, rose a rollicking voice.

”The hour of seven,” cried Michael Berrington, with gusty laughter.

”And it's not six of the clock yet. Why, troth, we'll be miles away past Craven's Hollow and through Reading itself before then, so you give me leave to handle the ribbons.”

More clamour at this you may be sure, more cursings too, and cries that to be robbed by highwaymen was better than to have their necks broken by a mad young blood from Oxford University.

But Michael's friends were nearest the driver, and the beetroot-nosed pa.s.senger stood their champion, so that, before more could be said, the driver of the ”Red Reindeer” was whisked from his seat and stowed struggling away in the custody of two chuckling Oxonians, whilst Michael gathered up the reins with a cry of encouragement to the horses, which were growing restive with long standing in the cold.

It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who cried ”Well played,” as the greys leapt forward under the light touch of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger--richer by many a coin of the realm--to pa.s.s the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any devil-may-care Oxford scholar.

And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but sweating greys had never been driven before.

Those within the coach vowed that their last hour had come, and clung together, the women in hysterics, and the men swearing as a sudden jolt would fling them one against the other, whilst shrieks and groans told of b.u.mps and bruises manifold.

Outside, however, things wore a merrier aspect.

The Oxford grads were enjoying themselves, trolling out jocular songs as though they sat to see the finish of the punch-bowl at a College wine, rather than a likely finish in a neighbouring ditch with a broken neck or two thrown in.

But the stranger with the nose and valise neither sang nor swore, but sat behind Michael, urging him to quicken his steeds' pace again and again, in tones which were inflected with growing anxiety.

But Michael needed no urging.

He was at least half an Irishman and was bred for a sportsman; moreover, he meant winning that race.

Faith! those inside might split, slit, and confound themselves and others till they were hoa.r.s.e, the coachman, pinioned firmly by Nat and Horace Goulden, might entreat and implore for pity on horses and pa.s.sengers, but Michael heeded nothing of them all.

High above the shrieking wind and creaking of tossing boughs overhead rose his strong, young voice, whooping on the straining, panting steeds as they dashed downhill at a gallop.

It was Providence that looked to the wheels of the coach.

A yell from Tom Blakeley, perched behind, set hearts a-thumping l.u.s.tily.

Cross roads and a stretch of common land had shown keen eyes the sight of a group of hors.e.m.e.n riding with loose rein to meet them.

Half a mile lower was Craven's Hollow, and our merry gentlemen of the road were on their way for their tryst.

But the Oxford coach was half an hour before her time.

”Hola! Hola! Hola!”

It was a wonder those chanting grads did not fling themselves from the coach-top in their excitement.

They were ahead of their pursuers.

Blunderbusses and pistols had been handed up from the arm-chest below, but it was agreed that a fight was to be avoided.

These gentry of the black mask were straight shooters and might let more hot blood than was desirable.