We continued to approach the house rapidly. The continuation of this rapid approach went on, and extended to the fullest degree, as it was ongoing. The speed of the coach was unrelenting, and suspensefully, it seemed – because this was, in fact, what was happening – that the distance between our noble vessel and our destination was decreasing very fast. The moment of impact seemed to be looming, as though, having now gone on for what seem’d like a long time, was in fact a short one, making one hope to abbreviate words like ‘seemed’ in the hope of stealing a little, just a little, more time before the moment of collision with a large, fragile house which was sure to collapse on us and obliterate us with large, jagged shards when we did, in fact, hit it.
I looked at Old Rogers, and he looked at me. Then we looked at Lax Lodgings, becoming increasingly larger in our field of vision as we hurtled unwittingly towards it. It seemed like a moment for action of any type, though what?
‘Keep your legs and arms from straggling,
‘Yes’m,’ he said, and I noted with admiration that he had abbreviated the usual form of respectful address, ‘Ma’am’, to a simple appendage on his concurrence. ‘I mean, “Yes’m, Ma’am.”’
There was silence as we observed the continuing increase in possibility that we would in seconds be slaughtered by this unfortunate chain of events. The silence was intruded on only by the sound of the rampant wheels of the carriage, the noise made by the appalling lack of an axle-tree, and the screaming of a rather jumpy and stressed-out donkey.
‘Permission, Ma’am,’ said
‘Permission what, Rogers?’ I snapped.
‘Permission to slightly straggle, Ma’am’ he responded.
‘How are you proposing to do that, man?’ I asked. ‘What is your plan?’
‘Permission to straggle moi arm to the extent of putting that brake on,’ he murmured.
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