The motive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence of anxious regard for Number One.
The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and down against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attended them.

A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace of his seat.

On close inspection they might have been perceived to be open rush baskets--one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles of wine.
'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton ?' asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.
Mr.Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate! Hanging and wiving go by destiny.' And then they were silent again.
The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing.

The customary close of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air.

With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them.