“Impossible. My horse is lame.”
“I know all about that.” And snatching up the reins she had dropped, “Gee-up!” he called suddenly.
But Methusalem knew better.
“You’ll never get home that way,” said Jinny, smiling.
“Then how the hell——?” he began furiously.
“Shanks’s mare,” she reminded him again. “That’s not lame.”
He gave her a long, nasty look as though meditating the law of the stronger. But he tried pleading first.
“By the time I walk home, my mother’ll have locked up; thinking I’m sitting up with a patient.”
“There’s the poorhouse!”
He winced. “You’ve got to carry me,” he said sullenly, “or I’ll have the law on you.”