“He’s coming! He’s coming!” shouted Tom. “Just over the hill! Don’t you see him?”
And the three boys, unable to control their delight, pranced around, threw their caps high into the air, and then raced down to the gate.
“Look at her go! Bet she can make thirty miles an hour,” predicted Harry.
“She is surely plowing through the sand in great style,” said Tom, as the automobile reached the flats and struck the heavy sand of the bottoms.
“I’m a-goin’ to sit on the front seat,” announced Dick confidently, hanging over the gate and swinging back and forth.
“Oh, no, you’re not, sonny! I am, you know,” declared patronizing Harry, but Tom, the deliberate, silenced them both.
“You’ll neither of you sit on the front seat. Babies belong back in the tonneau with their mother, and that’s just where you’ll be, youngsters. Father and I will sit in front, you’ll see.”
“Huh!” grunted Harry, with fine contempt. “Think because you’re an inch taller’n me you own the farm, don’t you?”
They were still arguing this all-important question when with toot of horn and a fine flourish the automobile drew up at the gate, and the chauffeur bent over the wheel to inquire:
“This Cloverleaf Farm?”