He roared at him to be off, to go on.

Where?
Into the Pacific, perhaps.

The driver lashed; the pony snorted, reared once, and darted off at a gallop.
Where?
To Apia?
To Honolulu?
He had 6000 miles of tropical belt to disport himself in, and I did not hear the precise address.

A snorting pony snatched him into "Ewigkeit" in the twinkling of an eye, and I never saw him again; and, what's more, I don't know of anybody that ever had a glimpse of him after he departed from my knowledge sitting inside a ramshackle little gharry that fled round the corner in a white smother of dust.

He departed, disappeared, vanished, absconded; and absurdly enough it looked as though he had taken that gharry with him, for never again did I come across a sorrel pony with a slit ear and a lackadaisical Tamil driver afflicted by a sore foot.