Sproatly assured her that they had not time to accept her hospitality. The girl went into the house for a few moments and returned to the wagon with relief in her face.
“I think I owe Mr. Wyllard a good deal,” she said.
Sproatly laughed. “You’re not exactly unusual in that respect,” he declared as he started the horses. “But you had better hold tight. These beasts are less than half broken.”
He flicked the horses 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 wagon.
“There’s a Swede down at Branker’s wants a bottle that will limber up a wooden leg,” he said.
Sproatly grinned, and waved his hands to them before he turned to Winifred.
“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 the road was far from good as it was, for spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was already unpleasantly spattered.
“You think you would have succeeded making a sale?” she asked with amusement in her eyes.