“N-no,” replied Jerry, “he always does that when he’s down here. Funny, isn’t it? Seems as if he was sort of tired. Bet you anything, Pat, if you went around the station he’d stop!”
“Is that so? Sure, he was born tired, that horse was. ’Tis a cryin’ shame to drive a beast like that. Let him be to die, why don’t ye?”
“Because if I did,” replied Jerry promptly, “you’d dig him out of his grave and hitch him to your hack. Is it so that you never take the harness off those nags, Pat, for fear they’ll fall to pieces?”
Whereupon Pat lost his temper and began to sputter, and before he could think of a sufficiently caustic response The Ark chugged up and caused a diversion.
There was another picnic about this time and the transportation company made the most of it. As, however, it was a Sunday School affair, most of the participants were children and the automobile was in less demand than at the previous picnic. Tom and Willard both worked hard that day, for Jerry and Spider deserted and journeyed to Providence with the high school baseball team to witness the return match with Providence Preparatory, and Willard had to drive Julius Cæsar and transport baggage. To add to Tom’s troubles, a rear tire blew out half-way between town and the picnic grounds and he was forced to lie up by the roadside for half an hour while, with the doubtful assistance of two elderly ladies and a twelve-year-old boy, the old tube and shoe were taken off and new ones put on. Altogether that Saturday was a busy and trying day, and Tom was glad to crawl into bed at nine o’clock. Just as he was falling off into delicious slumber a low but insistent whistle sounded under his window and he stumbled sleepily over to the casement.
“Tom! That you?” said Jerry’s voice.
“Yes; what is it?”
“I thought you’d like to know how the game came out. We lost, eleven to three.”
“Glad of it!” growled Tom as, bumping into a chair on the way, he again sought slumber.