Almost directly, the horse stopped, trembling and heaving. With a breath of relief, Merriwell began stroking his muzzle, patting his neck, and uttering soothing words. The animal perceived that he was a friend, and stood quiet.
One swift glance showed that the buggy was uninjured, then Merriwell looked around for the driver, stepping back from the horse to get a clear view.
He saw Billy McQuade meeting the driver, who had risen to his feet. It was evident at once that he had suffered from nothing worse than a severe shock, for, as Merriwell turned and approached the two, he heard the driver cursing furiously. With a feeling of distaste, he inspected the man, whose clothes Billy was hastily brushing.
The driver of the rig was a tall, spare, stoop-shouldered man. He was very well dressed, and wore a gray mustache and goatee. There was a hard set to his face, and a pouchiness beneath his black eyes, that denoted self-indulgence, and a life that was anything but what it should be.
“You good-for-nothin’ loafer!” he roared, turning furiously on Billy, as Chip Merriwell came up. “You done this a-purpose! You——”
“It was not Billy’s fault at all,” broke in Merry warmly. “I was the first one over the fence, and your horse shied at me.”
The driver whirled on him, his rage becoming a cold fury as he met Merriwell’s firm, steady gaze.
“What are you doin’ in them duds?” he demanded. “So it was you, hey?”
“Yes,” and, although Merry’s eyes flashed at the tone of the man, he kept his voice cool. “Yes, and I’m very sorry about it. Of course, I’ll be glad to settle for whatever damage was done.”
“Lot o’ good that’ll do!” growled the other, who seemed to be eying him with anything but liking. “What you chasin’ around in them duds for?”