THE MEETING WITH DICK HALLIARD
“Not a bit of it, for them chaps are quick to know where a shot comes from, and they always go for the one that fires; they know, too, that a stage driver never fights—helloa!”
At that moment, a bicycle guided by a boy glided silently along the right of the stage, turning out just enough to pass the vehicle. The youth whose shapely legs were propelling it, slackened his gait so that for a few minutes he held his place beside the front wheels of the coach.
He was a handsome, bright-faced youth about sixteen years old, who greeted the driver pleasantly, and, turning his head, saluted the others, without waiting for an introduction.
“I’m afraid a storm is coming, and I shall have to travel fast to get home ahead of it; do you want to run a race with me, Bill?”
“Not with this team,” replied the driver, “for we couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied the boy, with a laugh; “there are plenty who can beat me on a bicycle.”
“But there aint any of ’em in this part of the country, for I’ve seen too many of ’em try it. Bob Budd bragged that he would leave you out of sight, but you walked right away from him.”
The boy blushed modestly and said: