"But I ain't goin' to ruin my tire."
"What the deuce do I care about your confounded old tire? I'll pay for it. I'll pay you anything you ask if you get me to the dock on time."
But after bumping furiously from cobblestone to cobblestone, the chauffeur rebelled and positively declined to go farther until the tire was changed.
"Then it's up to us to catch a streetcar!" cried Bobby, "What luck! Here comes one now. They only run once a week."
"Street-car? Oh, you mean a tram. To be sure! Hadn't thought of it. Shall we run for it?"
Thrusting a gold piece into the hand of the chauffeur, he made a fifty-yard dash for the corner that did credit to his early training. But the imperious signal with which he hailed the car was not heeded. Instead, a fat conductor leaned from the rear platform and obligingly volunteered the information that he was on the wrong corner.
"Intolerable insolence!" muttered Percival to Bobby, who had just come up. "What are you laughing at?"
"At your face when the car went by. Here comes a wagon. Quick! Ask the man if he can't take us the rest of the way."
"But we can't ride in a—"
"Yes, we can. We can ride on a broom-stick if we have to. Hurry!"