Presently Nels drove round to the front of the hotel with the gray horse and a high-top buggy. Harry King regarded him closely as he passed, but Nels looked straight ahead. A boy came out carrying Stiles’ heavy valise.
“Put that in behind here,” said Stiles, as he climbed in and seated himself at Nels Nelson’s side. The gray leaped forward on the instant with so sudden a jump that he caught at his hat and missed it. Harry King stepped down and picked it up.
“What ails your horse?” he asked, as he restored it to its owner.
“Oh, not’in’. He lak yoomp a little.” And again the horse leaped forward, taking them off at a frantic pace, the high-topped buggy atilt as they turned the corner of the street into the country road. Harry King returned to his seat. Surely it was the Scandinavian who had walked 349 down from the bluff with him the evening before. There was no mistaking that soft, drawling voice.
“See here! You pull your beast down, I want to talk with you. Hi! There goes my hat again. Can’t you control him better than that? Let me out.” Nels pulled the animal down with a powerful arm, and he stood quietly enough while G. B. Stiles climbed down and walked back for his hat. “Look here! Can you manage the beast, or can’t you?” he asked as he stood beside the vehicle and wiped the dust from his soft black felt with his sleeve. “If you can’t, I’ll walk.”
“Oh, yas, I feex heem. I leek heem goot ven ve coom to place nobody see me.”
“I guess that’s what ails him now. You’ve done that before.”
“Yas, bot if you no lak I leek heem, ust you yoomp in und I lat heem run goot for two, t’ree mile. Dot feex heem all right.”
“I don’t know about that. Sure you can hold him?”
“Yas, I hol’ heem so goot he break hee’s yaw off, if he don’t stop ven I tol’ heem. Now, quvick. Whoa! Yoomp in.”