"You don' want me to stop, does you, Mist' Garrott?" bawled down Walter Taylor from the box.
"No, I told you! Go on!"
Walter cut his nag a mighty crack, and with the same movement drew rein sharply.
"Here's yo' number, suh!" he cackled, with great merriment. "One seven, like you said! Yassuh!"
So the hack halted, and the fare reluctantly discharged himself. His friend, having come up, halted, too, a few feet away; it was noted that his gibing expression had suddenly altered. And then Charles understood instantly that this fool's destination was no other than his own.
"Oho!" said Donald, slowly and suspiciously. "So this is where you were driving around to?"
Controlling an immense complication of sensations, Charles said coldly: "You mean you're going to—the Flowers', too?"
"You've guessed it!" retorted the engineer, with a slight touch of consciousness. And he added, assuming an indifferent air: "Just got to stop by and leave a book Miss Flower lent me."
And then, for the first time, Charles noticed the volume in a gaudy wrapper protruding beneath Donald's sturdy arm. The coincidence was remarkable, to say the least of it. It was also exceedingly annoying.
"Time, too," quoth the primitive male. "I've had it since before I went to Wyoming."