It was on the summit, where the considerate Boutigo gave us a minute's
pause to rearrange ourselves and our belongings, that we slipped into
easy and general talk. An old countryman, with an empty poultry-basket
on his knees, and a battered top-hat on the back of his head, gave us
the cue.
"When Boutigo's father had the accident--that was back in 'fifty-six,'
and it broke his leg an' two ribs--the van started from close 'pon the
knap o' the hill here, and scat itself to bits against the bridge at
the foot just two and a half minutes after."
I suggested that this was not very fast for a runaway horse.
"I dessay not," he answered; "but 'twas pretty spry for a van slippin'
_backwards_, and the old mare diggin' her toes in all the way to hold
it up."
One or two of the passengers grinned at my expense, and the old man
pursued--
"But if you want to know how fast a hoss _can_ get down St. Fimbar's
hill, I reckon you've lost your chance by not axin' Dan'l Best, that
died up to the 'Sylum twelve years since; though, poor soul, he'd but
one answer for every question from his seven-an'-twentieth year to his
end, an' that was 'One, two, three, four, five, sis, seven.
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