"Never mind your hat, Son," shouted William. "Silas'll pick it up."
The bays evidently thought he was shouting at them. They let their enormous stride out another link. The carryall plowed through the dust, rattled over pebbles, and, where the road ran damp under overhanging trees, shot four streams of mud from its flying wheels. Old William chewed steadily at the cud of tobacco he had kept tucked in his cheek during the interview at the station. His long arms were stretched full length along the taut reins. If he had only had hand-holds on them, he would have been quite content. As it was, he was grinning.
"Gee, Dad!" gasped Lewis, "d'you know those horses are still trotting!"
Leighton leaned forward.
"Got a match, William?" he shouted above the creak and rattle of the carryall.
"Heh?" yelled William.
The bays let out another link.
"Got a match?" repeated Leighton. "I want to smoke."
William waved his beard at his left-hand pocket.
As they struck a bit of quiet, soft road, Leighton called: