“I can drive home a great deal faster than we came,” I said.
“How far have you got to go?” inquired the clerk, who had told us that his name was Phillips.
“Twenty miles.”
“That’s a good bit; but it’s a moonlight night.”
“Dear me! We don’t care if it is,” Jessie returned, rather crossly; “we want to get home.”
“You’ll get home all right,” Mr. Phillips assured her, easily. “I’ll have Tom put your horses in at once and here’s the money for your load.” He counted out a fascinating little roll of bills, adding, as he tendered the amount to Jessie, who promptly pocketed it, “I hope you’ll excuse my saying that you appear to be a plucky pair of girls. If you’ve anything more to market—” Jessie shook her head:
“There was a reason; we were obliged to sell the melons,” she ended, lamely. The horses, fed, watered, and evidently greatly refreshed, were, by this time, on the wagon. Mr. Phillips helped us in, and, while doing so, his glance fell on the rifle lying under the seat. He took up the gun and ran his eye over it approvingly.
“Either of you shoot?” he inquired.
“My sister shoots pretty well,” Jessie told him, adding: “We really must be starting, and we are a thousand times obliged to you for your kindness.”