The drivers of the mail-carts sent along their half-wild and entirely unbroken ponies at racing speed, regardless alike of obstacles and consequences.

With an enterprising coachman the usual pace was about twelve miles an hour, including stoppages.

As we were recklessly flying along, the Brigadier, who was sitting in front, perceived that one of the reins had become unbuckled, and warned Walker and me to look out for an upset.

Had the coachman not discovered the state of his tackle all might have been well, for the ponies needed no guiding along the well-known road.

Unfortunately, however, he became aware of what had happened, lost his head, and pulled the reins; the animals dashed off the road, there was a crash, and we found ourselves on the ground, scattered in different directions.