“I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,” he said with mock severity.
“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense.
He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground.
“Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk.
“If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.”
“You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.”
The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk.
“Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently.
I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.”
We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking a trace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horse in a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere.