two minutes. Murray laughed to hear; and to hear the steady talk of the long whip, and the pulsing fire of hoofs as the four mad beasts in the chains bucked and ran back on each other and fought the weight of the bit.
On the box-seat Randal was unerringly gaining command. The team dropped back on its haunches, took breath, and sprang with a crash that made the old coach leap like a landed fish. Randal swung then hard for the alleyway, and Art Scannell thrust his head through the window before Murray could block him.
“I’m going to glory!” he cried. “I like it! Fellow-sinners, take what’s-his-name, and come along to glor———” Then the flash of lamps, and the darting tongue of the long lash and the blown foam from wide-set nostrils, passed on to the unbroken thunder of hoofs that roared into the night up the road.
Randal eased the pull, and settled his feet in the irons.
“Go it, you serene cripples,” he said. “But if you’re not blown in four miles, we’ll be all to glory with Art.”
Then realisation struck down on him, making him giddy for one moment of horror. Effie! What would Effie say to him if he lost Art for her? By her love for her twin Randal had first caught her. By it he held her, fearing
