“Hurt in the back!” came from both Sam and Darry.
“That looks bad,” continued the former. “Let us go to him by all means.” And he followed the Cuban to the volante.
“It’s a wonder Hockley didn’t come straight to our hotel if he was hurt,” said Darry. “But it’s just like him. He is as stubborn as an ox when he wants to be.”
In Cuba the volante, or “flyer” is the national carriage. It is a two-seated vehicle, slung on leathern straps between two very high wheels. The shafts are fifteen feet long, and the horses are harnessed tandem, the leader being for the postillion, or driver. It makes a very comfortable turnout and, because of the width from wheel to wheel, such a thing as a volante turning over is unknown.
They were soon moving over the highway at a good rate of speed. The Cuban offered no more explanations and merely shrugged his shoulders when questioned.
“Either he is very dumb or he doesn’t wish to explain,” whispered Darry.
“I don’t suppose Glummy told him everything, Darry. Perhaps the poor fellow is hurt too much for that.”
“He can’t be so badly off, or he wouldn’t have been able to write that letter. By the way, what did you do with it?”
“Tore it up.”
They were now passing several private residences and a moment later turned into a road which seemed almost deserted. Here the trees grew so low down that they frequently brushed the boys’ heads.