“Ah, you’re one of the good boys who don’t do anything naughty.”
It was a mean remark on the part of Wagstaff, who was seeking a quarrel, but Dick Halliard showed his manliness by paying no heed to the slur.
“Well,” said he, addressing the driver, “since you won’t run me a race, I shall have to try to reach home ahead of the storm. Good-bye all!”
The muscular legs began moving faster, the big, skeleton-like wheel shot ahead of the stage, coming back into the middle of the highway, and the lad, with his shoulders bent forward, spun down the road with a speed that would have forced the fastest trotting horse to considerable effort.
“By gracious!” exclaimed the New Englander, with his chin high in air, as he peered over the head of the driver, “that youngster beats anything of the kind I ever seen.”
“I don’t s’pose they have those sort of playthings in your part of the world,” remarked Jim, with a sneer.
“Yes, we have enough to send a few of ’em down your way for you folks to learn on. Bill, who is that chap?”
“Dick Halliard, and there aint a finer boy in Piketon.”
“He’s got a mighty fine face and figure.”
“You’re right about that; I want to give you chaps a little advice,” added the driver, turning his head, so as to look into the countenance of the city youths; “I heerd what you said to him and he had sense enough not to notice it, but you’ll be wise if you let Dick Halliard alone.”