Prothero made a noise of sympathetic assent.

“In a country where equestrianism is assertion I suppose one must be equestrian. . . .”

That night some malignant spirit kept Benham awake, and great American trotters with vast wide-striding feet and long yellow teeth, uncontrollable, hard-mouthed American trotters, pounded over his angry soul.

“Prothero,” he said in hall next day, “we are going to drive to-morrow.”

Next day, so soon as they had lunched, he led the way towards Maltby’s, in Crosshampton Lane.  Something in his bearing put a question into Prothero’s mind.  “Benham,” he asked, “have you ever driven before?”

“Never,” said Benham.

“Well?”

“I’m going to now.”

Something between pleasure and alarm came into Prothero’s eyes.  He quickened his pace so as to get alongside his friend and scrutinize his pale determination.  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“I want to do it.”

“Benham, is it—­equestrian?”

Benham made no audible reply.  They proceeded resolutely in silence.

An air of expectation prevailed in Maltby’s yard.  In the shafts of a high, bleak-looking vehicle with vast side wheels, a throne-like vehicle that impressed Billy Prothero as being a gig, a very large angular black horse was being harnessed.

“This is mine,” said Benham compactly.

“This is yours, sir,” said an ostler.

“He looks—­quiet.”

“You’ll find him fresh enough, sir.”

Benham made a complicated ascent to the driver’s seat and was handed the reins.  “Come on,” he said, and Prothero followed to a less exalted seat at Benham’s side.  They seemed to be at a very great height indeed.  The horse was then led out into Crosshampton Lane, faced towards Trinity Street and discharged.  “Check,” said Benham, and touched the steed with his whip.  They started quite well, and the ostlers went back into the yard, visibly unanxious.  It struck Prothero that perhaps driving was less difficult than he had supposed.

They went along Crosshampton Lane, that high-walled gulley, with dignity, with only a slight suggestion of the inaccuracy that was presently to become apparent, until they met a little old bearded don on a bicycle.  Then some misunderstanding arose between Benham and the horse, and the little bearded don was driven into the narrow pavement and had to get off hastily.  He made no comment, but his face became like a gargoyle.  “Sorry,” said Benham, and gave his mind to the corner.  There was some difficulty about whether they were to turn to the right or the left, but at last Benham, it seemed, carried his point, and they went along the narrow street, past the grey splendours of King’s, and rather in the middle of the way.

Prothero considered the beast in front of him, and how proud and disrespectful a horse in a dogcart can seem to those behind it!  Moreover, unaccustomed as he was to horses, he was struck by the strong resemblance a bird’s-eye view of a horse bears to a fiddle, a fiddle with devil’s ears.