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I had learned of this short cut in the course of my fishing expeditions with Roger; it was the nearest way to the Borle Brook, where our angling had ever the best success a narrow track striking off to the right, very rutty and rough, bordered by hedges, and uphill but not steep. I had tramped three miles or more, at a good pace, when I heard galloping horses behind me, and the rumble of wheels.
Once, when Roger and I had gone to the Borle Brook to fish, we came upon a little girl some five years old sitting by the brink, weeping bitterly. One foot was bare, her little shoe was floating down the stream, she had lost herself, and was so frightened that it was long before we could make out from her sobbing answers to our questions that she was daughter to the turnpike man.
"Jim," said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, "I d-don' b-b'lieve a single word on't. Here, give us a light, an' an' pash th' borle." Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars to their elevating occupations.
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