“Oh, we’ll hold on, don’t worry!” cried Phil.
“I’m used to hanging on,” came from the western girl, quickly. “Riding in this sleigh won’t be half as bad as hanging on to the back of a half-broken broncho.”
“I guess that’s right, too,” answered Dave’s uncle. “Just the same, you take care. I don’t want you young folks to have any accidents on this trip.”
“I trust you all have a good time,” came benevolently from old Caspar Potts, as he gazed at them and rubbed his hands. “My, my! how I used to enjoy sleighing when I was a young man! And how many years ago that seems!” he added with a little sigh.
“Don’t stay any later than midnight,” warned Mrs. Wadsworth.
“We’ll be back by that time unless something unusual turns up,” returned Dave. He turned to 99 the others in the sleigh. “Everybody fixed and ready?”
“All ready!” came back the answering cry.
“Then we’re off.” Dave turned to the driver, a middle-aged colored man. “Let her go, Wash.”
“Yassir,” responded Washington Bones, with a grin. “Giddap!” he called to his horses. And with a crack of the whip and a grand flourish the turnout left the front of the Wadsworth mansion and whirled out on to the broad highway leading to Lamont.
The four horses were used to working together, and they trotted along in fine style, causing many a passer-by to stop and gaze at the team and the gay load of young people in admiration. The horses were well equipped with bells, and each of the youths had provided himself with a good-sized horn, so that noise was not lacking as they dashed along past the stores and houses of Crumville. Then they came out on the Lamont road, where the sleighing was almost perfect.