The two friends parted for their morning business. At three, to a tick, Mr. Tootler was at the Tremont House, in a knowing buggy with hickory wheels, fresh-varnished. Mr. Waddy, also to a tick, ready with his carpet-bag, squinted at Cecilia and saw that she was a “good un.” Mr. Tootler, with his tonsure covered by a straw hat, was a very young, almost boyish-looking man, as vivacious and sparkling as a lively boy. Mr. Waddy was browner and graver, and his long moustache gave a stern character to his face, even when he smiled.
Cecilia lounged along over the stones down Beacon Street, with that easy fling which reminds one of the indolence of an able man. The air was cool and fragrant, and parasol clouds hung overhead, suggesting future need of umbrellas. The same need was foreshadowed by gleaming fires in horizontal blackness—they were evidently heating up those dark reservoirs that later a diluvial boiling-over might come.
Cecilia probably snuffed the approaching shower, or was a little wild with thoughts of her oats, for while Tootler was still pointing out to his friend the new houses of new men, the railroad causeways and the extension of the Common, the mare was imperceptibly and still lazily stretching into her speed. She was not one of those great awkward brutes that require a crowbar between the teeth and a capstan with its crew at either rein. This refined, ladylike animal had nothing of the wrong-headed vixen about her. Her lively ears showed caution without timidity. She was indeed a “good un,” with a pedigree brought down by the Ark from Paradise.
Mr. Tootler hardly felt the reins, the mare was minding herself. They were descending an easy slope, when a man driving fast, alone in a buggy, appeared over the opposite rise of ground. Just as he came within recognisable distance, he struck his horse violently with the whip; the horse winced and bolted and then turned toward his own side a little, but not enough to save the collision.
“We’re in,” said Tootler calmly, as the crash came.
He had the advantage of down-hill impetus and a large fore-wheel of the new style. His wheel struck the other’s hinder wheel just in front of the box. It swept the axle and both wheels clear. Cecilia pulled up in an instant—no damage. They left her standing and both sprang to the rescue of the stranger. He had been thrown out behind and was picking himself up from a spot where there was just mud enough for general defilement. Ira made after the horse, who only ran a hundred yards, and brought him back with the wreck of the wagon at his heels. Tootler was talking rather angrily to the stranger, who stood sulkily beating off the mud.
“Hang it, Belden, you know it was your own fault,” said Tommy. “Why the deuce did you hit that bolter of yours just at the wrong time? You might have broken all our necks.”
“Well!” said Belden, and the word expressed many things.
He was, or rather had been, dressed in white, with blue cravat, and wore a straw hat covered with fresh white muslin in the Oriental style. He was now bedaubed like Salius in the Virgilian foot-race. It was quite certain that his afternoon projects were at an end. He was an “object.”
“After all,” continued the good-natured Tootler, “you have the worst of it and I won’t abuse you. Here comes Waddy with your horse—he seems all right. Don’t you remember Waddy? Ira, this is Horace Belden. He used to be one of us—old friends.”