shown signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth was a dot.
He screwed up his face, and emitted a long "whew-w-w!"
"Lame," said Oak.
"Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore," said Coggan slowly, staring still at the footprints.
"We'll push on," said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed.
Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan recollected himself.
"We shall have him now!" he exclaimed.
"Where?"
"Pettiton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between here and London—Dau Randall, that's his name—knowed en for years, when he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and the gate 'tis a done job."
They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until, against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing their route a little way ahead.
"Hush—we are almost close!" said Gabriel.
