"Coorse not; coorse not, but ye—"
"Let me out!" cried Split.
The sneer in his voice had set her aflame. She rose in the sleigh, cast off the furs, and, stamping like a fury, tried to seize the reins.
"Ho! Ho!" The old monarch's bowed broad shoulders shook with laughter as he caught her trembling hands and held them. "What a little spitfire! A divvle of a temper ye've got, my dear. Cody, now, does he like gyurls with such a temper?"
"Will you let me out?" Her voice was hoarse with anger.
"Can't ye wait till we get t' a crossin', ye little termagant?"
"No—no!" She tore her hands from him, and, with a quick, lithe leap from the low sleigh, landed, a bit dazed, in the snow banked high on the side of the street.
Uncle Sammy stared after her a moment. Then he remembered the boy behind.
"Hi—there!" he cried, looking over his shoulder as he reached for his whip. "Git!"
But Cody had the street-boy's quickness. All he had to do was to let go the end of rope he held, and the leg-breaker slipped smoothly back, while the king's runnered chariot shot ahead, drawn by the flying horses on whose backs the whip had descended.