"Git up, there! Whoa—steady, boy, steady—so long, Jed." His long, snake-like whip twisted and writhed through the air, cracking like a volley of pistol-shots; the leaders plunged forward, and, in a moment, a cloud of dust again arose, and the little station was veiled behind the flying particles.
The dapple grays, at an even trot, pounded over the yellow road, past white farmhouses, green fields and orchards loaded with fruit, toward the tree-covered mountains which loomed up straight ahead.
"This is a dandy country," cried Bob Somers, enthusiastically. "Must be all kinds of game out here. Say, are there many visitors at the village?"
"Ever since people got the idea that it was a good health resort, we've had 'em—that is now an' then," responded the driver, skilfully flipping the off-horse on the ear, "but I only wish I could git away."
Bob smiled. "Any young fellows around?" he asked—"enough to make up a baseball nine? It would be jolly good fun to have a game."
"I ain't got no time for such foolishness," growled "Big Bill," flipping the other horse with equal skill. "There's young fellers around, of course. Did you ever see a place without 'em? An' I ain't a-sayin' that they're all they should be, neither."
"Some people from New York here, aren't there?"
"How did you know?" queried Dugan, with a look of surprise.
"Oh, my uncle told me something about 'em. Said they were good sort, and all that."
"Guess you're talkin' 'bout Fenton an' his son, Howard," responded Dugan, frowning until the lines on either side of his nose had deepened into ruts. "They're staying at the hotel. A good sort, you say? Well, I haven't much use for 'em. Neither one never throw'd no coin in my way. Whoa, you brute! If that little feller inside sees old 'Peggy' a-stumblin' like that, he'll be scared enough to git out—an' walk."