“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Sam; “and besides,” he added importantly, “I shall be thinking of business all the time.”
“At last,” said Tom to himself, as his cousin stepped leisurely into the fly and lit a cigarette.
“On’y just time to ketch that there train, sir,” said the driver, who, feeling no fear of his bony horse starting, was down out of his seat to hold open the fly-door.
“Then drive faster,” said Sam coolly.
“Wish he’d show me how,” muttered the driver, as he closed the door and began to mount to his seat, scowling at his slow-going horse.
“Good-bye, clodhopper,” said Sam, toying with his cigarette, as he threw himself back in the fly without offering his hand.
“Good-bye, Sam,” replied Tom. “All right, driver;” and the wheels began to revolve.
“He thinks Uncle Richard ’ll leave him all his money,” muttered Sam, as they passed out of the swing-gate. “All that nice place too, and the old windmill; but he don’t have it if I can do anything.”
“There’s something wrong about me, I suppose,” said Tom to himself, as he turned down the garden, and then out into the lane, where he could look right away over the wild common-land, and inhale the fresh warm breeze. “Poor old chap though, I’m sorry for him!” he muttered. “Fancy having to go back to London on a day like this.”
Then from the bubbling up of his spirits consequent upon that feeling of release as from a burden which had come over him, Tom set off running—at first gently, then as hard as he could go, till at a turn of the lane he caught sight of Pete Warboys prowling along with his dog a couple of hundred yards away.