“I want to ride inside,” he said.
“I’d like to accommodate you,” said the driver, “but there’s only room for one.”
“I don’t see why I haven’t as good right to a seat inside as anybody else,” said John, in a grumbling tone.
John Wall was rather a stout, freckle-faced boy, dressed with some pretension to style, and sporting a pair of kid gloves. He secretly considered himself to be unusually good-looking, and on the strength of his father’s wealth gave himself airs of superiority to which he was not entitled. His manners were decidedly arrogant and overbearing, and he was far from being a favorite in Portville, although a great many things, which would not have been excused in another less favored by fortune, were forgiven him on account of his father’s wealth.
“I’d like to stretch the inside of the stage if I could,” said Abner, good-naturedly, “but that ain’t easy.”
“You may sit in my lap, John,” said his father.
“I’d rather not,” said John, sullenly.
“Then I think you will have to make up your mind to sit with Abner.”
“I ain’t going to spoil my clothes,” growled the discontented boy.
“Here is an umbrella for you,” said his father.