“It’s a long four miles uphill from here to Hand Cross,” said my uncle, as we flew through Cuckfield.  “I must ease them a bit, for I cannot afford to break the hearts of my cattle.  They have the right blood in them, and they would gallop until they dropped if I were brute enough to let them.  Stand up on the seat, nephew, and see if you can get a glimpse of them.”

I stood up, steadying myself upon my uncle’s shoulder, but though I could see for a mile, or perhaps a quarter more, there was not a sign of the four-in-hand.

“If he has sprung his cattle up all these hills they’ll be spent ere they see Croydon,” said he.

“They have four to two,” said I.

“J’en suis bien sur.  Sir John’s black strain makes a good, honest creature, but not fliers like these.  There lies Cuckfield Place, where the towers are, yonder.  Get your weight right forward on the splashboard now that we are going uphill, nephew.  Look at the action of that leader:  did ever you see anything more easy and more beautiful?”

We were taking the hill at a quiet trot, but even so, we made the carrier, walking in the shadow of his huge, broad-wheeled, canvas-covered waggon, stare at us in amazement.  Close to Hand Cross we passed the Royal Brighton stage, which had left at half-past seven, dragging heavily up the slope, and its passengers, toiling along through the dust behind, gave us a cheer as we whirled by.  At Hand Cross we caught a glimpse of the old landlord, hurrying out with his gin and his gingerbread; but the dip of the ground was downwards now, and away we flew as fast as eight gallant hoofs could take us.

“Do you drive, nephew?”

“Very little, sir.”

“There is no driving on the Brighton Road.”

“How is that, sir?”

“Too good a road, nephew.  I have only to give them their heads, and they will race me into Westminster.  It wasn’t always so.  When I was a very young man one might learn to handle his twenty yards of tape here as well as elsewhere.  There’s not much really good waggoning now south of Leicestershire.  Show me a man who can hit ’em and hold ’em on a Yorkshire dale-side, and that’s the man who comes from the right school.”

We had raced over Crawley Down and into the broad main street of Crawley village, flying between two country waggons in a way which showed me that even now a driver might do something on the road.  With every turn I peered ahead, looking for our opponents, but my uncle seemed to concern himself very little about them, and occupied himself in giving me advice, mixed up with so many phrases of the craft, that it was all that I could do to follow him.

“Keep a finger for each, or you will have your reins clubbed,” said he.  “As to the whip, the less fanning the better if you have willing cattle; but when you want to put a little life into a coach, see that you get your thong on to the one that needs it, and don’t let it fly round after you’ve hit.  I’ve seen a driver warm up the off-side passenger on the roof behind him every time he tried to cut his off-side wheeler.  I believe that is their dust over yonder.”