Being
a game one, however, she struggled on with a trot, till at length, turning
up the deeply spurlinged, clayey bottomed cross-road between Rookgate and
Clamley, it was all she could do to drag the gig through the holding mire.
Bump, bump, jolt, jolt, creak, creak, went the vehicle. Jack now diving his
elbow into the lad's ribs, the lad now diving his into Jack's; both now
threatening to go over on the same side, and again both nearly chucked on
to the old mare's quarters. A sharp, cutting sleet, driving pins and
needles directly in their faces, further disconcerted our travellers. Jack
felt acutely for his new eight-and-sixpenny hat, it being the only article
of dress he had on of his own.
Long and tedious as was the road, weak and jaded as was the mare, and long
as Jack stopped at Starfield, he yet reached Jawleyford Court before the
messenger Harry.
As our friend Jawleyford was stamping about his study anathematizing a
letter he had received from the solicitor to the directors of the Doembrown
and Sinkall Railway, informing him that they were going to indulge in the
winding-up act, he chanced to look out of his window just as the contracted
limits of a winter's day were drawing the first folds of night's muslin
curtain over the landscape, when he espied a gig drawn by a white horse,
with a dot-and-go-one sort of action, hopping its way up the slumpey
avenue.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346