'Tis a sixteen-mile drive, and the ostler in at Bodmin had swindled the
poor old horse out of his feed, I believe; for he crawled like a slug.
But they were so taken up with discussing the day's doings, and what a
mort of people had been present, and how the sheriff might have used
milder language in refusing my father, that they forgot to use the whip.
The moon was up before we got halfway home, and a star to be seen here
and there; and still we never mended our pace.

'Twas in the middle of the lane leading down to Hendra Bottom, where for
more than a mile two carts can't pass each other, that my father pricks
up his ears and looks back.

"Hullo!" says he; "there's somebody gallopin' behind us."

Far back in the night we heard the noise of a horse's hoofs, pounding
furiously on the road and drawing nearer and nearer.

"Save us!" cries father; "whoever 'tis, he's comin' down th' lane!"
And in a minute's time the clatter was close on us and someone shouting
behind.

"Hurry that crawlin' worm o' yourn--or draw aside in God's name, an' let
me by!" the rider yelled.

"What's up?" asked my father, quartering as well as he could.
"Why! Hullo! Farmer Hugo, be that you?"

"There's a mad devil o' a man behind, ridin' down all he comes across.
A's blazin' drunk, I reckon--but 'tisn' _that_--'tis the horrible voice
that goes wi' en--Hark! Lord protect us, he's turn'd into the lane!"