“Are you going?” screamed Joel, all awake to the fact that now was the time when those leather reins were to be put into his hands, and beginning a wild scramble for the top of the cart, little Davie pitching after.
“I s’pose we’d better be,” said Mr. Beggs, grimly, “unless we spend th’ mornin’ here. Well, good day, Mis’ Hinman.”
But she neither saw nor heard him, busy as she was picking her way across the grass, her new skimmer grasped in her hard old hand.
“She beats th’ Dutch an’ Tom Walker!” exclaimed Mr. Beggs. It was all that escaped him, but as he repeated it over and over, perhaps no more was needed. And as the old horse had been somewhat revived by his long rest, he now concluded to show off his best speed. Joel sat up as straight as he could, his brown little hands thrust stiffly out, grasping the old leather reins in a great state of excitement, and crying out, “G’lang, there—g’lang!” while little Davie plunged into terror, clung with one hand to the edge of his seat, and the other to Joel’s jacket to keep him from falling out.
“Ye’re enjoyin’ it, ain’t ye?” Mr. Beggs leaned over to peer at Joel’s red cheeks.
“It’s prime!” cried Joel. “G’lang there—see him go, Dave, I’m driving,” he announced.
“Isn’t he going very fast?” asked little Dave, timidly, not being able to look around, having all he could do to hold on with both hands.
“Gee—whiz!” sang Joel, wishing Polly was there to see him, and how he was exactly as big as Ben.
“Oh, don’t, Joel,” begged Davie, “make him go any faster.”
“Phoo! that’s nothin’,” said Joel, magnificently; “I’m going to take the whip,” and he broke away from David’s clutch to lean forward.