“I think you have gone mad, Will.”
“That’s not your affair, Miss Quarles, I want my trunk.”
“I was ordered to deliver it at Frog Farm.”
“And I order you to deliver it to me.”
“Let go.” She cracked her whip in his direction.
“You little spitfire! If you touch me with that whip I’ll have an action against you—as well as against your dog.”
“Let go my horse then.”
“I’m within my legal rights, as any male carrier would know. I demand my trunk.”
“And I demand my horse. Let go!”
“I won’t.” He was running along with it now, keeping pace with the mystified Methusalem.