"Am I?" asked Conniston, coolly, mastering the sudden desire to take this little fat man into his two hands and choke him. "You know a great deal about what I intend to do, Mr. Swinnerton. And now, if you are not through talking your infernal nonsense, I am through listening to it. There is room to turn right here. Understand?"
"But—" began Swinnerton, only to be cut short with:
"There are no buts about it!"
He stooped, seized the bit of one of Swinnerton's horses, and jerked it about into the road.
"Get out!"
"I tell you," yelled Swinnerton, "Conniston or no Conniston, you can't bluff me. Do you hear?"
Conniston made no reply as he jerked the horses farther around. When their heads were turned toward the way which Swinnerton had come he lifted his quirt high above his head. Oliver Swinnerton went suddenly white and raised his arm to protect his face. But only Conniston's laugh stung him as the quirt fell heavily across the horses' backs. The buggy lurched, the horses leaped forward; Oliver Swinnerton's surprised torrent of curses was lost in the rattle of wheels, his red face obscured in the swirling dust.
"I wonder what he was driving at?" muttered Conniston as he watched the horses race down the road.
Jimmie Kent, reining his horse aside as Swinnerton swept by him, smiled and called, pleasantly:
"Good-by, Oliver. Seem to be in a hurry!"