The chauffeur was older than Fortune, although about the same size, and he protected himself with a good deal of vigor. In spite of his utmost efforts, however, the wanderer threw him and dropped on his chest with both knees; then, as he drew back his fist to strike, the stout man grabbed his arm.
“What do you mean, you young savage?” the man cried. “Here, Rockwell! Help me get these two apart.”
Rockwell helped, and so did Clancy. In a little time the two antagonists were dragged away from each other and held firmly at a distance. Their glances crossed angrily.
“If it’s a fight you want,” snarled the chauffeur, “I’m willing to accommodate. No one can jump me like that without takin’ his medicine, by gorry!”
“Y’ought to have your face pounded in!” shouted Fortune. “You run me down on the narrer trail, up the mountain, and I had to roll over the edge o’ the clift to get away from you. What d’you mean by whalin’ along a road like that, without ever givin’ a feller who’s hoofin’ it a chanst for himself?”
“Look here, Dirk Hibbard,” called the stout man, fastening a stern glance on the chauffeur, “is that what you did?”
“You can’t believe that whelp, judge,” answered Hibbard. “You know I’m a careful driver. He’s making up that yarn out of whole cloth. I slowed up and sounded the Gabriel—and he knows it!”
“Slowed up!” jeered Fortune. “You tore past me at forty miles an hour. Ain’t that so, pard?” and he appealed to Clancy.
“Yes,” said Clancy, “it’s so. He sounded the horn, but never slackened speed at all. I had to be quick to get out of his way.”
The judge favored Clancy with a keen look. Evidently he was impressed by the youth’s appearance and truthfulness.