“Jump in, Trotwood, old man—we must be in a hurry. Slap Jack in there behind with my two setters. Be in a hurry! By George! I know where there are a dozen coveys, and we’ll be there in forty minutes. Hi, Jack! what’s the matter? Get in! Confound him, what’s the matter with that old dog?”
I was lugging Jack and trying to get him in. He was kicking like a half-roped steer. He had always jumped to his place in the little buggy, but now—
I knew what was the matter. Even Jack, dog that he was, had his principle, and he was man enough to say so. While I—
I turned crimson.
“Get in, old boy,” I begged. “We’ll be there in a jiffy. Dead bird—good doggie.”
I got him in, with his head down and his tail between his legs. To all intents he was going to a funeral. I turned quickly away, for I could not stand the scorn and dumb reproach of his eyes. Right then I would have quit and gone back, but I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings.
“Jump in, jump in—let’s be going,” he shouted, in his nervous, business way. “Oh, just a minute! There—you’re on the ground. Say, here, take this and give that starting crank a whirl. I’m not very expert myself,” he went on, “and I sometimes forget; but you’re on the ground—there—right there!”
I took the crank and put it in the spindle he pointed out.
“Now give her a whirl, old man—a good twist—there!”
I gave her a whirl—several of them. I whirled her like blue blazes. I kept on whirling, while her owner grasped the wheel and his eyes danced nervously, as he expected her to flash into the throb that said steam was on.