Sproatly laughed. "You're not exactly singular in that respect, but you had better hold tight. These beasts are rather less than half broken."
He flicked them with the whip, and they went across the track at a gallop, hurling great clods of mud left and right, while the group of loungers who still stood about the station raised a shout.
"Got any little pictures with nice motters on them?" asked one, and another flung a piece of information after the jolting waggon.
"There's a Swede down at Branker's wants a bottle that will supple up a wooden leg," he said.
Sproatly grinned, and waved his hand to them before he turned to his companion.
"We have to get through before dark, if possible, or I'd stop and sell them something sure," he said. "Parts of the trail further on are simply horrible."
It occurred to Winifred that it was far from excellent as it was, for spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was already getting unpleasantly spattered.
"You think you would have succeeded?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said Sproatly. "If I couldn't plant something on to them when they'd given me a lead like that, I'd be no use in this business. At present, my command of Western phraseology is my fortune."
"You sell things, then?"