‘I—I can drive all right—but I don’t stop very well.’
‘Oh, ye stopped all right. Wan of yer horses had his nose through a wheel of the big tr-ruck. If ye hadn’t—’
But at that moment Amos Weed came in. His face was red and he was panting heavily. He looked at Rex, worked his jaws savagely, and glared at the policeman.
‘He ran a race wid the fire department, Mr. Weed,’ said the officer. ‘The boy is too swift to be drivin’ a delivery wagon.’
‘He is!’ exploded Weed angrily, turning on Rex. ‘You are fired! Don’t go near that wagon! You almost killed both horses. I was a fool to hire you, in the first place.’
Weed bustled outside into the crowd, while Rex leaned against a counter and tried to adjust his thoughts. He had never been hurt before, and the experience was quite a novelty. It was not remorse. He tried to grin.
‘Get away from that counter!’ snapped a voice. Rex turned his head slightly. The clerk was standing close to him, scowling and pointing.
‘Move on, will you?’ he demanded. ‘You’re bleeding on my counter. This is not a hospital. Will you move, or will—’
The man reached over and put a hand on Rex’s shoulder, as though to shove him away; and before Rex realized what he was doing he had clenched his fist and smashed the clerk square in the jaw, sending him spinning back against another counter.
Rex stared at the man, who made no move to resent the blow, but kept both hands up to his jaw. Like a man in a daze, Rex limped through the doorway, while the clerk ran out behind him, calling for the police. But the crowd had righted the wagon, untangled the team, and the policeman had gone on down his beat.