“What’s wrong?” asked Carroll.
“Says he won’t go there. Says he was hired by you for shopping.”
Carroll took one look at the agony-wrung face of the beggar, who was being held on the seat by his companion.
“Won’t he?” said he grimly. “We’ll see.”
Rising, he threw a pair of long arms around those of the driver, pinning him, caught the reins, and turned the horses.
“Now ask him if he’ll drive,” he directed Perkins.
“Si, señor!” gasped the coachman, whose breath had been squeezed almost through his crackling ribs.
“See that you do,” the Southerner bade him, in accents that needed no interpretation.
Presently Perkins looked up from his charge.
“Got a cigar?” he asked abruptly.