Bill Stiles looked at the rich boy earnestly.
“Bill,” he said, very calmly, “you know something about this. The chaffer says, ‘Whiz; it is back to Nyack he go.’”
“The choofer said that, did he?” exclaimed Aleck Hunt.
“Yes; that’s what the chaffer remarked, Bill number two. Get your legs a-moving, Roy Pinger.”
“Say, you’re kind of fresh, aren’t you?” said George, quizzically.
“The salt of the earth are always fresh. So-long, Bill! Whiz! Look out for monsieur the chaffer—whiz—which way is it, Roy Pinger? Whiz—through the woods, eh? All right—toddle,” and, laughing and jesting, the party of students made across the road.
“Well,” exclaimed George, as he gazed after their retreating forms, “did you ever hear of such a piece of nerve in your life as Pierre thinking he could come out here alone and yank me back? Just think of it! I’m surprised at Uncle Dan—ab-so-lute-ly astonished; but I’m going to teach that nervy chauffeur a jolly good lesson.”
“He needs it the worst way,” approved Bob. “And the cheek of him, telling all those chaps about you.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Fred Winter, with interest. “Listen—is that any one comin’?”
The boys strained their ears, but heard nothing save a faint rustling caused by the fitful breeze.