"H’m!" Our guest coughed significantly. "A great many cars thinks they can take this road; but they all come back. We walks after ’em at our convenience."
"Meanin’ that the other jaunty is now pursuin’ us on his lily feet?" said Pyecroft.
"Precisely."
"An’ you think," said Pyecroft (I have no hope to render the scorn of the words), "that’ll make any odds? Get out!"
The man obeyed with alacrity.
"See those spars up-ended over there? I mean that wickyup-thing. Hop-poles, then, you rural blighter. Keep on fetching me hop-poles at the double."
And he doubled, Pyecroft at his heels; for they had arrived at a perfect understanding.
There was a stack of hurdles a few yards down stream, laid aside after sheep-washing; and there were stepping-stones in the brook. Hinchcliffe rearranged these last to make some sort of causeway; I brought up the hurdles; and when Pyecroft and his subaltern had dropped a dozen hop-poles across the stream, laid them down over all.
"Talk o’ the Agricultur’l Hall!" he said, mopping his brow—"’tisn’t in it with us. The approach to the bridge must now be paved with hurdles, owin’ to the squashy nature o’ the country. Yes, an’ we’d better have one or two on the far side to lead her on to terror fermior. Now, Hinch Give her full steam and ’op along. If, she slips off, we’re done. Shall I take the wheel?"
"No. This is my job," said the first-class
