“It ain’t no use argyfyin’, young feller. The whole passel of yer goes over to Mill Creek in ther mornin’ I reckin the squire ’ull give you a lesson you won’t fergit.”
“Can’t you be reasonable?” struck in Tom. “We’re on our way to Portstown. It’s important that we hurry up. We’ve got to be there at a certain time.”
“I don’t give a hoop in Hannibal what ye’ve got ter do!” snorted the farmer. “You’ve got to go afore the squire fust. Reckon he’ll soak yer good. He gave a party of automobubblists a good dose last week. I reckon he’ll be all cocked and primed fer you sky-buggy fellers.”
“Well, I guess it’s a case of pile out,” said Jack, with a rueful grin. “This old fellow is as obstinate as a mule. We can only hope to make a good impression on this squire, whoever he is.”
“To judge from his description,” said Tom, “he must be a nice, whole-souled old party.”
“No palaverin’, now. Git right out. I’ll fix you up with quarters in the barn where you won’t git out, and give yer the rogues’ march in the morning.”
There was no help for it. One by one they clambered out, while the hired men stood by with broad grins. They were delivered over to these representatives of the enemy while Farmer Turpin marched grimly behind with his gun.
“Take ’em to the red barn, Reuben,” he ordered, and the boys were presently marched into a large barn partially filled with hay.
“Now I guess ye’ll stay put for a while,” remarked the farmer, with grim humor, as he prepared to close the door.
“You old clod-hopper, for two cents I’d bust that hook nose of yours in,” roared out Joyce angrily.