“Of course it is. You know that as well as I do.”
“I don’t know it at all.”
“Then I inform you of it. I don’t want to be selfish; I am willing that you should ride out in it occasionally; but I insist upon your asking my permission.”
Guy listened to these words with a sneer upon his face. He was about the same age and size as Hector, but his features were mean and insignificant, and there was a shifty look in his eye that stamped him as unreliable. He did not look like the Roscoes, though in many respects he was in disposition and character similar to his father.
“It strikes me,” he said, with an unpleasant smile, “that you’re taking a little too much upon yourself, Hector Roscoe. The buggy is no more yours than mine.”
“What do you say, Edward?” said Hector, appealing to the coachman.
“I say that the buggy is yours, and the horse is yours, and so I told Master Guy, but he wouldn’t take no notice of it.”
“Do you hear that, Guy?”
“Yes, I do; and that’s what I think of it,” answered Guy, snapping his fingers. “My father gave me permission to ride out in it, and I’ve got just as much right to it as you, and perhaps more.”
“You know better, Guy,” said Hector, indignantly; “and I warn you not to interfere with my rights hereafter.”