All the time the rumble of the turrible coach dhrew nearer an’ nearer, an’ he felt himself helpless as a babe. He closed his eyes to shut out the horror of the headless dhriver an’ of the poor, dead men laning back agin the sate.
At that last minute a swift hope that the King might be within hearing lent him a flash of strength, and he called out the by-word.
“Cabbage an’ bacon!” he cried out, dispairing. “Cabbage an’ bacon’ll stop the heart achin’!” he roared, dismally, an’ then he gave a great gasp, for there was a splash in the road ferninst the three, an’ a thraymendous black coach, with four goint horses an’ a coachman on the box, stood still as death before him.
The dhriver wore a brown greatcoat, the lines hung limp in his fingers, an’ Darby’s heart sthopped palpitaytin’ at the sight of the two broad, headless chowlders.
The knowledgeable man sthrove to cry out agin, but he could only croak like a raven.
“Cabbage an’ bacon’ll stop the heart achin’,” he says.
Something moved inside the coach. “Foolish
