Mr Boxall had a large white face, but the most peculiar thing about him was his eyes. The pupil of his left eye was about twice the size of the pupil of the right eye. It had also a cold and steadfast stare, for it was made of glass. This glass eye of Mr Boxall’s was what is called an open secret; every one knew of it, but no one mentioned it openly. On account of it, old ladies, when they spoke of him, called him “poor Mr Boxall.” The stone wall of the road was so low that the race between the donkey-cart and the “tub” could be clearly seen by the people in the waggonette. “Why, God bless my soul!” said Uncle Molyneux, screwing his eye-glass tight in his eye and half standing up so as to get a better view, “I believe it is my nephew and niece.” “They’ll be over!” cried Violet Lestrange, who was also half standing up. “Look! look! the pony is running away.” “Who’s that ruffian in the donkey-cart?” cried General Grampound. “They are racing him—the pony has not run away; I see the boy beating it with the whip. Hi, you, sir! you in the donkey-cart—I’ll give you in charge of the police.” “It’s little he cares about the police,” said the driver of the waggonette, who was also following the race with interested eyes. “That’s Bob Mahony, the chimbly sweep, and he’s been to the meet of the houn’s, for his face is washed. Look! he’s gainin’ on the pony carridge—Ten to one on the dunkey!—ten to one on the dunkey! Lather her, Bob, lather her! They’re makin’ who’ll get through the gate first. He’ll do it! He won’t! He will, be jabers—Hurroo!” The donkey-cart having outstripped the “tub,” was passing through the gate triumphant and victorious, when the right wheel caught the post and over it went, sweep, cart, donkey and all. The driver of the waggonette drew the vehicle up and got down, heedless of General Grampound or anything else, and approached the wreckage on the road. “Are yiz kilt, Bob Mahony?” asked the driver, bending down with his hands on his knees and staring at the prostrate figure in the road. “Faith, I dunno yet,” said the figure, sitting up and putting one hand to the top of its head. “Me head’s on, but I seems to have left me intellicts in the field beyant.” “Feel your legs to see if they’re bruck,” commanded the driver. “Legs is all right,” replied Mr Mahony, feeling them contemplatively; “back’s all right, and arums. I’ll be on me pins again in a minit when the wheels has done spinnin’ in me head.” “Right y’are,” replied the other. “I’ll be after getting the dunkey on her feet.” General Grampound, furious with anger at being stopped, had been aiming himself like a gun now at Mr Mahony, now at the driver, now at the donkey lying on its side on the road, but he had withheld his fire. Patsy’s red head (he had lost his cap) as the “tub” made its appearance in the gateway, served as a target, however, and he let fly.