The gig narrowly missed the ditch, and then to my relief the horse bolted.

Swaying like a ship in a gale, the whole outfit lurched out of sight round the corner of hill where lay my cache.

If Amos could stop the beast and deliver the goods there, he had put up a masterly bit of buffoonery.
The two men laughed at the performance, and then they parted.

Gresson retraced his steps up the hill.

The other man--I called him in my mind the Portuguese Jew--started off at a great pace due west, across the road, and over a big patch of bog towards the northern butt of the Coolin.