A long stretch of road lay before us, barred with the shadows of wayside trees.  Through the green fields a lazy blue river was drawing itself slowly along, passing under a bridge in front of us.  Beyond was a young fir plantation, and over its olive line there rose a white whirl which drifted swiftly, like a cloud-scud on a breezy day.

“Yes, yes, it’s they!” cried my uncle.  “No one else would travel as fast.  Come, nephew, we’re half-way when we cross the mole at Kimberham Bridge, and we’ve done it in two hours and fourteen minutes.  The Prince drove to Carlton House with a three tandem in four hours and a half.  The first half is the worst half, and we might cut his time if all goes well.  We should make up between this and Reigate.”

And we flew.  The bay mares seemed to know what that white puff in front of us signified, and they stretched themselves like greyhounds.  We passed a phaeton and pair London-bound, and we left it behind as if it had been standing still.  Trees, gates, cottages went dancing by.  We heard the folks shouting from the fields, under the impression that we were a runaway.  Faster and faster yet they raced, the hoofs rattling like castanets, the yellow manes flying, the wheels buzzing, and every joint and rivet creaking and groaning, while the curricle swung and swayed until I found myself clutching to the side-rail.  My uncle eased them and glanced at his watch as we saw the grey tiles and dingy red houses of Reigate in the hollow beneath us.

“We did the last six well under twenty minutes,” said he.  “We’ve time in hand now, and a little water at the Red Lion will do them no harm.  Red four-in-hand passed, ostler?”

“Just gone, sir.”

“Going hard?”

“Galloping full split, sir!  Took the wheel off a butcher’s cart at the corner of the High Street, and was out o’ sight before the butcher’s boy could see what had hurt him.”

Z-z-z-z-ack! went the long thong, and away we flew once more.  It was market day at Redhill, and the road was crowded with carts of produce, droves of bullocks, and farmers’ gigs.  It was a sight to see how my uncle threaded his way amongst them all.  Through the market-place we dashed amidst the shouting of men, the screaming of women, and the scuttling of poultry, and then we were out in the country again, with the long, steep incline of the Redhill Road before us.  My uncle waved his whip in the air with a shrill view-halloa.

There was the dust-cloud rolling up the hill in front of us, and through it we had a shadowy peep of the backs of our opponents, with a flash of brass-work and a gleam of scarlet.

“There’s half the game won, nephew.  Now we must pass them.  Hark forrard, my beauties!  By George, if Kitty isn’t foundered!”

The leader had suddenly gone dead lame.  In an instant we were both out of the curricle and on our knees beside her.  It was but a stone, wedged between frog and shoe in the off fore-foot, but it was a minute or two before we could wrench it out.  When we had regained our places the Lades were round the curve of the hill and out of sight.