silently went off to the station. The passenger on the coach-box remained motionless.
Prokop was so exhausted that he was obliged to sit down on the edge of the pavement. “I shall never get there,” he felt desperately; “I shall remain here until . . . unti. . .”
The postman returned from the station bringing with him an empty tub. Somehow he attached it to the platform of the coach-box and looked at it reflectively. “Sit down there,” he said finally.
“Where?” asked Prokop.
“Well . . . on the coach-box.”
By some superhuman effort, as if some magical power were lifting him up, Prokop got on to the coach-box. The postman did something with the reins and there he was sitting in the tub with his legs hanging down over the side. “Hey,” said he.
The horse made no movement, but only trembled.
The postman made another thin, guttural “r-r-r,” The horse whisked its tail.
“R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.”
The post-wagon moved off. Prokop convulsively gripped a railing at his side; he felt that it was beyond his strength to keep his place on the coach-box.
“R-r-r-r-r.” It seemed that this high, whirring note somehow galvanized the old horse. It limped along, twitching its tail.
“R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.” They were going along an avenue of bare trees. It was pitch dark, save where the flickering strip of light from the lantern moved over the mud. Prokop clung to the railing feeling that he had already completely lost control of his
