But that was not all. He saw his opportunity, caught the reins, and
took such a pull at the terrified horses that a policeman and a soldier
were able to get hold of their heads. The coachman, who had fallen
clear, now ran up. With him came a gentleman in a fur coat. Royson was
about to turn and find out what had become of the lady, when some one
said quietly:

"Well saved, King Dick!"

It was the Hon. John Seymour who spoke. Rigid as a statue, and almost
as helpless, he was standing in the middle of the road, with his left
hand holding the flag and a drawn sword in his right. Yet a school
nickname bridged five years so rapidly that the man who had just been
reviling Fate smiled at the picturesque officer of the Guards in the
old, tolerant way, the way in which the hero of the eleven or fifteen
permits his worshipers to applaud.

But this mutual recognition went no further. The Guards must on to St.
James's. Some incomprehensible growls set them in motion again, the
drum banged with new zest, and the street gradually emptied, leaving
only a few curious gapers to surround the damaged victoria and the
trembling horses. The fresh outburst of music brought renewed prancing,
but the pair were in hand now, for Royson held the reins, and the mud-
bedaubed coachman was ready to twist their heads off in his wrath.

"Don't know what took 'em," he was gasping to the policeman. "Never
knew 'em be'ave like this afore. Quiet as sheep, they are, as a ryule."

"Too fat," explained the unemotional constable. "Give 'em more work an'
less corn. Wot's your name an' address? There's this 'ere lamp-post to