"What's the matter, Petey? What are you mad at? Didn't he thank you for savin' the things?"
"Thank nothin'," Peter growled. "Do the Carters ever thank you? All the blame is fixed on me for the things them little divvels do—damn little divvels—that's what they are. 'An' is it fittin',' says he, 'that ye should use such language before Master Bobby?' Lor'! I wish he could hear the language Master Bobby used before me the time he fell into Trixy's manger. I'd like to meet Mr. Carter in the open once, as man to man. I'd knock him out in the first round with me right hand tied behind me."
Peter was clearly fighting mad.
"I'd like to get a whack at that reporter what wrote that paper. Young Malone has missed his callin', has he? I'd show him where young Malone's talents lie; I'd knock him into the middle o' next week. 'Gallant work o' Chief McDougal.' Bloomin' lobster in a rubber helmet. I'll teach him his dooty if I ever ketch him out alone. It was me as saved the buckboard an' all the tools, an' Master Augustus in the bargain—wish I'd let him burn, I do. 'An',' says Mr. Carter, 'do ye think it consonant wid the dignity o' me position,' he says, 'that me son should be painted with axle grease—me—the Honourable Jerome B. Carter, Esquire?' His dignity! Take away his money an' his dignity, an' there wouldn't be enough of him left to fill a half-pint measure. I'll get it back at him; you see if I don't. I risks me life and I burns me best pants, an' that's all the thanks I get!"
A week had passed over Willowbrook. The charred ruins of the waggon-shed had been carted to the barnyard; the Comanche braves had become white again—though in the course of it they had lost a layer of skin—and the subject of axle grease and brass polish had been allowed to fade into the past. Mr. Carter, having once eased his mind, had banished all rancour from his thoughts. Being a lawyer, with influence in high places, he had received an unexpectedly adequate insurance, and he was beginning to regard the matter as a funny after-dinner story. But Peter persisted in being sulky. Though his blistered hands were healed, his wounded feelings were still sore. As he drove his employer to and from the train, he no longer permitted himself the usual friendly chatter; his answers to all queries were respectful but not cordial. Peter was steadfastly determined to keep Mr. Carter in his place. Meanwhile, he was looking longingly for the chance to "get it back." And suddenly the chance presented itself—fairly walked into his hands—a revenge of such thorough-going appropriateness that Peter would have held himself a fool to let it slip.
The yearly circus had arrived—the Nevin Brothers' Company of Trick Animals and Acrobats—and every billboard in the village was blazing with pictures of Rajah, the largest elephant in captivity. The Nevin Brothers confined themselves to one-night stands. On the day of the performance, Peter, having driven Mr. Carter to the station, stopped on his way home at Scanlan's to have the shoe tightened on Trixy's off hind foot. The shop was just around the corner from the vacant lot where the tents were going up, and while he was waiting, Peter strolled across to watch.
To his surprise and gratification he discovered that the elephant trainer was a boyhood friend. Arm in arm with this distinguished person, he passed by the curious crowd of onlookers into the animal tent for a private view of Rajah. Once inside, and out of sight, it transpired that his friend would be obliged if Peter could lend him a dollar. Peter fortunately had only fifty cents about him; but the friend accepted this, with the murmured apology that the boss was slow in forwarding their wages. He more than paid the debt, however, by presenting Peter with a pass for himself and "lady," and Peter drove home in a pleasant glow of pride and expectation.
He submitted the pass to Annie, and drove on to the stables, casually informing the groom who helped him unhitch that he had gone to school with Rajah's trainer, and wished he had a dollar for every time he'd licked him.
Toward seven o'clock that evening, as Peter was happily changing from plum-coloured livery into checked town clothes, a telephone call came out from the house, ordering the waggonette and the runabout. "Yes, sir, in fifteen minutes, sir," said Peter into the mouthpiece, but what he added to the stable boy would scarcely have been fit for Master Bobby's presence. He tumbled back into his official clothes, and hurried to the kitchen to break the news to Annie.
"It's all up with us," said Peter gloomily. "They've ordered out the two rigs, and both Billy an' me has to go—if it had only been ten minutes earlier they'd uv caught Joe before he got off."