“If you are afraid, let me drive. We won’t get home till dark if we don’t move faster.”
“What if we don’t! It’s better to get home all right than to have the blacks run away.”
“Run away! Fiddlesticks! Can’t horses trot without running away?” And before Phil could protest, Ted clucked to the blacks.
Instantly they responded, breaking into a smart trot, causing the tools and boxes to rattle and bounce, making a surprising racket.
Alarmed at the noise, the horses, in the evident endeavour to get away from the strange sounds, went faster and faster, finally breaking into a run.
His face very white, Phil braced his feet and pulled with all his might on the reins. But the blacks kept on running.
So rough was the road that the boys bounced about on the seat as though they were pebbles, several times almost falling off.
Two or three times, Ted opened his mouth to speak, only to bite his tongue as the wagon gave a particularly vicious bounce, but at last he yelled “Whoa!” and the horses stopped with a suddenness that flung both boys to the ground.
Quickly they picked themselves up, Phil still holding the reins.
“I’ve a good mind to make you walk home,” he called. “I knew what would happen. You keep quiet while I’m driving. When I want to trot I will.” And when they both had regained the seat, he quietly started the blacks again.