Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered vaguely. “Maybe thirty or forty.”
“Pshaw,” said Spider, “horses don’t live that long, ever; do they, Will?”
“None of mine ever did,” replied Willard gravely. “Can he—can he go, Jerry?”
“You bet he can! ’Course, he ain’t awfully fast now, you understand, but he used to do a mile in two-ten——”
“Oh, what a whopper!” shouted Spider.
“Well, two-something,” amended Jerry untroubledly. “Maybe it was two-forty.”
“And maybe it was two-sixty,” suggested Tom laughingly. “Never mind, though, if he can get from the station to town in half an hour he will be good enough for us. We’ll look you up after dinner, Jerry, and see what your father says. You try to make him let us have him.”
“Don’t you worry,” replied Jerry, pouring himself a third tumblerful from the glass pitcher. “When he understands that I’m going to drive him it’ll be all right.”
“Say, I’m going to drive him sometimes, ain’t I?” demanded Spider. “You said——”