“Humph!” Nuggy Polk arose to his feet with difficulty, and dragged himself to where Gilbert stood. “Where’s Jerry?” he demanded.
“Your companion was clinging to the cart seat the last I saw of him.”
“Humph! He’ll be killed as sure as you’re born. But it serves him right. He had no business to try to take the reins out of my hands. I know how to drive—used to drive the finest high-steppers in Richmond. He don’t know the first thing about hosses.”
“Well, I hope he isn’t killed.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right—you couldn’t kill Jerry Nickerson if you tried. Say, but I’m in a pickle, ain’t I?” And Nuggy Polk surveyed himself dismally. He was arrayed in a white linen suit, with a fancy silk dress shirt; and the outfit had suffered much from the contact with mud and water. “I can’t go back to Manila looking like this.”
Gilbert could offer nothing but his handkerchief; and this Polk accepted, and washed his face and hands at a near-by pool. He was very unsteady on his legs, and his speech was thick. He declared that he did not care what became of Jerry Nickerson.
“He’s my friend, but in a case of this kind he must take care of himself,” he muttered. “I suppose those ponies won’t run on forever.”
“If you got them from a stable in Manila, they will probably go straight home,” answered Gilbert. “By the way, do you belong in Manila?” he went on, determined to “pump” Polk without making himself known.
“Me belong to Manila?” cried the young man. “Not much. You couldn’t hire me to live in such a back-number town. No, I’m from Richmond, Virginia.”
“Then you are a good way from home. But I, too, come from Virginia,” continued Gilbert. “I was born in Powhatan Court House,” which was the exact truth.