Their course lay along one of those field-roads so common in Leicestershire, where the track on a dark night is not easily distinguished from the adjacent ridge-and-furrow, and which, delightful to the equestrian for that very reason, as no jealous fence prevents him diverging for a canter on to the springy pasture, are less convenient for carriages owing to the number of gates that delay the passage of the vehicle. They were now approaching the first of these obstacles to their course, and Crasher had not yet got a pull at his horses. “It’s open, I think,” remarked the Honourable, peering into the darkness ahead, and endeavouring to moderate the pace without effect. “I think _not_!” replied Mr. Sawyer, setting his teeth for a catastrophe. Right again! Three more strides and they were into it! A crackling smashing noise of broken wood-work—one or two violent bangs against the splash-board—a faint expostulation of “_Gently_, my lads!” from the Honourable—a tremendous jolt against the post, which was torn up by the roots—and Mr. Sawyer found himself on his face and hands in an exceedingly wet furrow; a little stunned, a good deal confused, and feeling very much as if somebody had knocked him down, and he did not know whom to be angry with. As he rose and shook himself to ascertain that no bones were broken, much struggling and groaning as of an animal in distress, mingled with weeping and lamentation from a human voice, smote on his ear. The former arose from Marathon, who couldn’t get up, with the other horse and the pole and part of the carriage atop of him: the latter from The Boy, who, frightened for the moment into a spurious sobriety, thus gave vent to his feelings of utter despondency and desolation. “I thought the brute _could_ jump timber,” said a calm voice in the surrounding darkness. “Let us see: _here’s_ the carriage—_there_ are the horses—and _that_ must be The Boy. Where are _you_, Sawyer?” “Here!” answered our friend, coming forward, rubbing his elbows and knees, to discover if he was hurt; the Honourable, who had never abandoned his cigar, endeavouring to extricate the horses—a measure only to be accomplished by dint of cutting the harness—and to estimate the amount of damage, and the impossibility of putting in to refit. Our friend set to work with a will. By their joint endeavours they succeeded at last in getting the hapless Marathon and his companion clear of the wreck. Both were obviously lamed and injured; the carriage, as far as could be made out in the darkness, broken all to pieces. The Boy, after flickering up for a few minutes, had become again unconscious. As the old watchman used to sing out, it was “Past one o’clock and a stormy morning!” “Whereabouts are we?” asked Mr. Sawyer in dolorous accents, as he tried to persuade himself he ought to be thankful it was no worse. “Whereabouts are we, and what had we better do?”