“You write a novel!  Wouldn’t you like to build a pyramid at the same time?”

“We’ve given that old fellow a fright on the top of the cabbage,” said Jack, going within an inch of the wheels of the cart.  “He’ll think we’ve got Cotherstone in harness.  But what do you mean about a pyramid?”

“Why, who ever heard of your writing a novel?”

“I did not say write a novel—­I said publish a novel.”

“Well, who is to write it?” I enquired.

“That’s the secret,” he answered; “and if that isn’t one of Pickford’s vans, I’ll tell you”——­

The mare kept up her speed; and, looming before us, apparently filling up the whole road, was one of the moving castles, drawn by eight horses, that, compared to other vehicles, are like elephants moving about among a herd of deer.

“Is there room to pass?” asked Jack, pulling the right rein with all his might.

“Scarcely,” I said, “the post is at the side of the road.”

“Take the whip,” said Jack, “and just when we get up, give her a cut over the left ear.”

In dread silence we sat watching the tremendous gallop.  Nearer and nearer we drew to the waggon, and precisely at the right time Jack pulled the mare’s bridle, and I cut her over the ear.  Within a hairbreadth of the post on one side, and the van on the other, we cut our bright way through.

“This is rather pleasant than otherwise,” said Jack, breathing freely; “don’t you think so?”

“I can’t say it altogether suits my taste,” I answered.

“Do you think she begins to tire?”

“Oh, she never tires; don’t be the least afraid of that!”

“It’s the very thing I wish; but there’s a hill coming.”

“She likes hills; and at the other side, when we begin to descend, you’ll see her pace.  I’m very proud of the mare’s speed.”

“It seems better than her temper; but about the novel?” I enquired.

“I shall publish in a fortnight,” answered Jack.

“A whole novel?  Three volumes?”

“Six, if you like—­or a dozen.  I’m not at all particular.”

“But on what subject?”

“Why, what a simpleton you must be!  There is but one subject for a novel—­historical, philosophical, fashionable, antiquarian, or whatever it calls itself.  The whole story, after all, is about a young man and a young woman—­he all that is noble, and she all that is good.  Every circulating library consists of nothing whatever but Love and Glory—­and that shall be the name of my novel.”

“But if you don’t write it, how are you to publish it?”

“Do you think any living man or any living woman ever wrote a novel?”

“Certainly.”

“Stuff, my dear fellow; they never did any thing of the kind.  They published—­that’s all.  Is that a heap of stones?”

“I think it is.”

“Well, that’s better than a gravel-pit.  Cut her right ear.  There, we’re past it.  Amazing bottom, has’t she?”