“Don’t let our clothes worry you,” retorted Merry. “You know where to find me if you want damages. Come along, Billy.”
He promptly turned his back. Billy threw a dubious look at the man, then followed slowly. Once more the deep voice reached Merriwell.
“You’ll be sorry for this, mind my words! You ain’t a-going to talk to me that way and get off with it, you young scoundrel!”
Chip Merriwell’s cheeks flamed a little, but he kept a firm grip on himself and walked on. After a moment he turned to see the man climb into his buggy and give the horse a savage cut with the whip.
“The brute!” he murmured indignantly. “What that horse needs is a kind word, instead of the lash. More than likely that fellow had him whipped into such a temper that he would have shied at a dead leaf.”
Billy nodded. To his surprise, Merry saw that his friend’s usually clear, frank features were overcast and troubled.
“What’s the matter, old man? You seemed to know that fellow.”
“I do.”
Billy cast a worried look at the rig, now disappearing around the curve of the road.
“Here’s a go!” he muttered gloomily. “I guess we’re all in for it now, Chip.”