“Please change places with me.” She said it imperiously.
He looked steadfastly down into her eyes for an instant, until her glance fell. Then he asked, lightly:
“Have you driven them before?”
“No.”
“I wonder why,” he mused.
She was silent, but her cheeks burned with displeasure.
“I’m glad we’re to have a Fourth of July celebration,” said he, driving steadily on. His tone became casual, with a pleasant inflection, quite as if there had been no controversy. “It will do the natives good—stir them up. I took the liberty, after you had sent your order, of wiring the dealer to add rather a good lot of explosives on my own account. They will come along with yours. It’s lucky the wagon is big—we shall need it for all the stuff.”
But the girl would not talk about the Fourth of July. She sat erect, with her very charming head in the air, and let the miles roll by in silence.
Upon the platform of the small freight house at the junction stood several boxes, a long roll and two trunks—all due at the farmhouse. As the wagon drew up to it, the freight agent came leisurely out to attend to business. His eyes fell at once upon the black team.
“Pretty likely pair,” said he, with an approving pat upon the nearest shining flank. “Joe Hempstead’s, ain’t they? I heard he set considerable store by ’em. Well, they’re all right—or will be, when they’re a little older. I’ve got a mare now that I cal’late could show ’em a clean pair o’ heels. She’s round behind the station. I’ll bring her out.”