He shut the flap, and we were off quickly—too quickly. In the next few moments I could feel that something all wrong went on; there was a jingle and snapping of harness, and such a voice from the Bishop behind us that I looked out to see him. We had stopped, and he was running after us at a wonderful pace for a man of sixty-four.
“If you don’t drive better than that,” said the grizzled athlete, arriving cool and competent, “you’ll saw wood for another year. Look how you’ve got them trembling.”
It was a young pair, and they stood and steamed while the broken gear was mended.
“What did California hold the record in before the Boy Orator broke it?” said I, getting out.
He shot at me the same sinister look I had seen in the Capitol, the look he must always wear, I suppose, when taken aback. Then he laughed broadly and heartily, a strong pleasant laugh that nearly made me like him. “So you’re that fellow! Ho, ho! Away down here now. Oh, ho, ho! What’s your business?”
“You wouldn’t believe if I told you,” said I, to his sudden sharp question.
“Me? Why, I believe everything I’m told. What’s your name?”
“Will you believe I haven’t come to buy anybody’s silver mine?”
“Silver! I don’t keep it. Unloaded ten years ago before the rabbit died.”
“Then you’re the first anti-silver man I’ve met.”