There was a grunt of indignant protest from Specs, but the others obeyed first and talked afterwards.
"Look here, Bunny," Bi objected, as the car slowed down, "you are running this party and I'm not; so what you say goes. But I don't see any use of stopping. We aren't doing anything wrong. We've been given permission to operate the car. He hasn't any right to tell us we can't, and if he tells us we can—why, we know that already. There he comes now up over the bank. I say, start up again and explain when we get to Wells Junction."
Specs chimed in. "We're not going anywhere on our own account; we're going to play baseball for the school. All we're doing by stopping now is asking for trouble."
The wheels ground to a dead center.
Bunny's lips were set. "I know how you feel. I feel that way myself. But I know we can't do that sort of thing. This man isn't a section hand: he's wearing a uniform; he has a cap; it looks as if he had some right to tell us to stop. I'll put it up to him just as strong as I can, and he may let us go on. If he won't—"
The man was within fifty yards of them, running at a clumsy gait up the track. Though puffing and out of wind, he did his best to shout.
"Take—that—hand car—off the—track!"
"Like fun we will!" muttered Specs.
The man came on, repeating his command. "Take it off—yank it off—right away!"
Bunny stiffened. "I don't think you understand—"