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"Of course," said Prothero, "this isn't a trotter."
"I couldn't get a trotter," said Benham.
"I thought I would try this sort of thing before I tried a trotter,"
he added.
And then suddenly came disaster.
There was a butcher's cart on the right, and Benham, mistrusting the
intelligence of his steed, insisted upon an excessive amplitude of
clearance. He did not reckon with the hand-barrow on his left,
piled up with dirty plates from the lunch of Trinity Hall. It had
been left there; its custodian was away upon some mysterious errand.
Heaven knows why Trinity Hall exhibited the treasures of its
crockery thus stained and deified in the Cambridge streets. But it
did--for Benham's and Prothero's undoing. Prothero saw the great
wheel over which he was poised entangle itself with the little wheel
of the barrow. "God!" he whispered, and craned, fascinated. The
little wheel was manifestly intrigued beyond all self-control by the
great wheel; it clung to it, it went before it, heedless of the
barrow, of which it was an inseparable part.


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