“Do, Bigley, do,” cried Bob in ecstasy. “Here, I’ll hold the reins. Chuck him out.”
“Don’t talk that way, Mars Bob Chowne,” whined the old man. “You wouldn’t like me to be hurt.”
“Oh, just wouldn’t I!” cried Bob spitefully. “Pitch him overboard, Bigley, old boy, and hurt him as much as you can.”
“No, no, you wouldn’t, Mars Bob Chowne. You wouldn’t like me to have to be carried home on a wagon, and your father have to tend me for broken bones and such.”
“I tell you I would,” cried Bob savagely; “and I hope you’ll bite your tongue, and then you won’t be so ready to ask questions. There!”
“Me ask questions!” exclaimed the old carrier in an ill-used tone. “As if I ever did. Well, never mind, he’ll know better some day.”
The old man sniffed several times quite severely, and sat bolt upright at the side of the cart, looking out at his horse’s ears, and left us to ourselves. Bob’s fit of melancholy was over, and he was ready to make remarks upon everything he saw; but neither Bigley nor I spoke, for we were intent upon something the latter told me.
“I don’t want to tell tales,” he said to me in a low tone, “but father makes me miserable.”
“But do you think it is so bad as you say?”
Bigley nodded.