“Yes,” answered Edward, fumbling in his vest pocket.
He drew out a small scrap of notepaper, on which was written, “My son, Guy, has my permission to ride out in the buggy. You will obey me rather than Hector.”
This was signed, “Allan Roscoe.”
“So it seems my uncle is the trespasser,” said Hector. “It is he who takes the responsibility. I will go and speak to him at once.”
“Wait a minute! There comes Master Guy, returning from his ride. You can have it out with him first.”
In fact, Hector had only to look down the avenue to see the rapid approach of the buggy. Guy held the reins, and was seated in the driver’s seat with all the air of a master. The sight aggravated Hector, and not without reason. He waited until Guy, flinging the reins to Edward, leaped from the buggy, then he thought it time to speak.
“Guy,” he said, calmly, “it seems to me that you owe me an apology.”
“Oh, I do, do I?” sneered Guy. “What for, let me ask?”
“You have driven out in my buggy, without asking my permission.”
“Oh, it’s your buggy, is it?” said Guy, with another sneer.