“I don’t see what I can do, my dear,” said the woman in the basket phaeton. “You can’t lead him, and you can’t push him, and I verily believe if you built a fire under him he’d just move up far enough to burn the cart, and stand there until his harness scorched him.”
Agnes giggled at that, and was her own jolly self again. “It’s up to you, Neale O’Neil,” she declared. “You’re the chauffeur and are supposed to make us go. Make us!”
“Get out and walk around the pony,” proposed Neale, grinning.
“And what about the car?”
“Do you think we could lift it over?” said Ruth, with scorn.
“Now, young man,” Agnes pursued, with gravity. “It is your duty to get us to Marchenell Grove. We’re still twenty-five or thirty miles away from it——”
“My goodness!” exclaimed the lady in front. “Were you young folks going there?”
“We had an idea of doing so when we started, ma’am,” said Agnes, quickly.
“I should have gone there to-day, too——”
“Not with that pony?” shrieked Agnes, clasping her hands.