He was
driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan.
The very telegraph posts seemed to gape with envy and admiration as
he passed. What ultimately he was going to do with his caravan he
neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was, it was a bright sunny
morning, and all the others were in school, and he was driving a red
and yellow caravan along the high road. The birds seemed to be singing
a paeon of praise to him. He was intoxicated with pride. It was _his_
caravan, _his_ road, _his_ world. Carelessly he flicked the mule with
the whip. There are several explanations of what happened then. The
mule may not have been used to the whip; a wasp may have just stung
him at that particular minute; a wandering demon may have entered into
him. Mules are notoriously accessible to wandering demons. Whatever
the explanation, the mule suddenly started forward and galloped at
full speed down the hill. The reins dropped from William's hands; he
clung for dear life on to his seat, as the caravan, swaying and
jolting along the uneven road, seemed to be doing its utmost to fling
him off. There came a rattle of crockery from within. Then suddenly
there came another sound from within--a loud, agonised scream. It was
a female scream. Someone who had been asleep behind the curtain had
just awakened.
William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat.
For not one scream came but many.
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