“Say, you did hit his horse,” remarked Bob in a low voice.
“Better pull up and see if he’s going to make trouble. Otherwise he may take our number and report us,” advised Ned.
There was a grinding and shrieking of brakes and the auto came to a stop just ahead of the farm wagon, the driver of which had now quieted his horses.
“What do you mean?” he roared, as he dismounted, whip in hand. “What right you got to smash into me that way?”
Jerry stood up in the machine, and looked at the steeds before replying. A quick glance told him that beyond a mere scratch that had not even drawn blood, the horse he had struck was not injured. Then the tall lad replied.
“Look here, Mister Man. I don’t want any of your talk!”
“Oh you don’t; hey? Wa’al, I’m goin’ to give you some, an’ then I’m going to make a complaint agin ye!”
“No, you’re not,” declared Jerry with easy assurance. “In the first place you’re a road-hog of the worst type. We kept behind you for nearly a mile, swallowing your dust, and, though there were several places where you could have turned out, and let us pass, you wouldn’t do it. I got tired of tooting my horn, and when I saw a chance to slip by I took it. I wouldn’t have barked your horse, if you’d kept to your own side of the bridge, and you know it.
“As it is, your animal isn’t hurt a bit, but you were nearly the cause of something serious happening to us. Now go ahead and make a complaint if you dare. We’ll come right back at you with a worse one for obstructing the road. That’s all I’ve got to say to you, and you can put it in your pipe and smoke it! Hold fast, fellows, here we go!” And with that Jerry threw in his gear, let the clutch slip into place and they were off down the road before the angry and chagrinned farmer could think of anything to say.
When he did get his brain to working all he could ejaculate was: