“And you ought to have a driver to drive him, as you said about ten thousand times before,” said Rapp with good-natured tolerance, “but Peter Lane ain't come up to town yet, if that's what you're working round to.”
“Oh, get along with you!” said Mrs. Potter. “I got a hired man now.”
“Well, you meant Peter, didn't you? Why don't you come right out and say so? But I guess you won't get Peter to drive this colt for a while yet.”
“He ain't sick?”
“No. Nor he ain't dead. But as near as I can make out Peter is goin' to jail.”
Mrs. Potter turned sharply and George Rapp grinned. He could not help it, she showed such consternation.
“Peter—in—jail?” she cried.
“Well, not yet,” said Rapp, chuckling at her amazement. “They 're out hunting him now. The dogs of the law is on his trail. That feller Briggles I told you of got his head broke by a tramp Peter took into my boat, and he's real sore, both in head and feelings. Last night him and a sort of posse went down to get the whole crowd, but Peter had skipped out with the kid.”
“Good for Peter! Good for Peter!” exclaimed Mrs. Potter. “I never looked for so much spunk. It was his boy as much as anybody's, wasn't it?”
“Looks so to me,” said Rapp, “but this here United States of Riverbank County seems to think different. Maybe Peter ain't been washin' the boy's face regular, three times a day. Anyhow, Briggles got a court order for the boy and he's goin' to jug Peter.”