“I can’t help it about Ike, and I can’t help it about John: I guess Mr. Littlefield wants to be polite to his company,” said Pollio, cracking the whip.
The little girls had to run away for fear of being hit. It troubled them to see Pollio climb the wheels, and walk on the thills; but, the more they begged, the more he was determined to have his own way.
“Oh, what little cowards! ’Fraid of a whip, and ’fraid of a carriage without any horse! See me now! I can turn a somerset right on the wheel!”
Whether he would have tried to do it and broken his neck, I can’t say; for, as he was prancing up and down on the thill, he was stopped suddenly by a crackling noise, as if wood was splitting in two. He knew what it was: he had broken the thill!
His brown face turned almost white as he slipped back into the carriage.
“‘O boys! carry me ’long,’” sang he in a husky voice, as if nothing had happened.
The girls had not heard the noise, for they had been screaming to him not to turn a somerset on the wheel.
“‘O boys! carry me ’long.’ ‘Swing low, sweet chariot!’” said pale, guilty Pollio, scrambling slowly down from the carriage. “Let’s go find some eggs.”
What would he have given now if it were this forenoon instead of this afternoon! What would he have given if he had obeyed John, and not broken the beautiful new carriage, and disgraced himself forever!