“Wouldn’t I? You’ll see. I will count ten, and if at the end of that time you don’t turn out, I will drive on, and make you take the consequences.”
Philip glanced at him doubtfully. Would he really do what he said?
“Pooh! I don’t believe it!” he decided. “Anyway, I’m not going to give way to a working boy. I won’t do it.”
I am not going to decide the question whether Harry did right or not. I can only say that he claimed no more than his rights, and was not without excuse for the course he adopted.
“One—two—three!” counted Harry, and so on until he had counted ten.
Then, gathering up his reins, he said: “I ask you, Philip, for the last time, whether you will turn out?”
“I won’t till I get ready.”
“Go ’long, Dobbin!” was Harry’s sole reply. And his horse was put in motion.
The natural result followed. The grocery wagon was strongly made, and fitted for rough usage. The buggy was of light structure, built for speed, and was no match for it. The two carriages locked wheels. That of the wagon was unharmed, but the wheel of the buggy came off.
The horse darted forward. Philip was thrown out at the side, aiming an ineffectual blow with his whip at Harry, as he found himself going, and landed in a half stunned condition on the grass at the side.