I observed that Ned seemed anxious. One of his leaders was a bolter, and his wheelers were far from steady; and the man ahead walked not quite so straightly as if he had been ploughing a furrow. We were almost upon him--Ned gave a sharp halloo--the man looked back, and wavered. A minute decided the matter. He escaped Scylla, but Charybdis yawned for him--in plain prose, he cleared the Rocket, but contrived to get under the broad wheel of a Warwickshire waggon, which was passing in the opposite direction. There was still a chance,--even a fly-waggon may be stopped without much notice--but the waggoner was inside, sweethearting with three maids that were going to Coventry. Every voice cried out Woh! but the right one. The horses plodded on--the wheels rumbled--the bells jingled--we all thought a knell. Ned instantly pulled up, with his team upon their haunches--we all alighted, and in a moment the sixteen the Rocket was licensed to carry were at the fatal spot. In the midst of the circle lay, what we considered a bundle of last linen just come home from the mangle. “That’s a dead un,” said the smoker, throwing away as he spoke the butt-end of a cigar. “Poor wretch,” exclaimed the humane man from the roof, “what a shocking spectacle!” “It’s over his chest,” said I. “It’s all over,” said the passenger on my right. “And a happy release,” said a lady on my left; “he must have been a cripple for life.” “He can’t have a whole rib in his body,” said a man from the dicky. “Hall to hattums,” said a gentleman from the inside. “The worst I ever see, and I’ve had the good luck to see many,” said the guard. “No, he can’t get over that,” said Ned himself. To our astonishment, however, the human mass still breathed. After a long sigh it opened one eye--the right--then the other--the mouth gasped--the tongue moved--and at last even spoke, though in disjointed syllables. “We’re nigh--hand--an’t we--the nine--milestun?” “Yes--yes--close to it,” answered a dozen voices, and one in its bewilderment asked, “Do you live there?” but was set right by the sufferer himself. “No--a mile fudder.” “Where is there a surgeon?” asked the humane man, “I will ride off for him on one of the leaders.” “Better not,” said the phlegmatic smoker, who had lighted a fresh cigar with some German tinder and a lucifer--“not used to saddle--may want a surgeon yourself.” “Is there never a doctor among the company?” inquired the guard. “I am a medical man,” replied a squat vulgar-looking personage. “I sell Morison’s pills--but I haven’t any about me.” “Glad of it,” said the smoker, casting a long puff in the other’s face. [Illustration: “THIS IS THE TIME WHEN CHURCH-YARDS YAWN.”] “Poor wretch!” sighed the compassionate man. “He is beyond human aid. Heaven help the widow and the fatherless--he looks like a family man!” “I were not to blaame,” said the waggoner. “The woife and childerin can’t coom upon I.”