Dave, with his cap pulled well over his eyes, peered out.
The houses were becoming further and further apart. Here and there lights in windows shone dimly through the darkness. The line of trees on either side of the road rattled and snapped their myriads of branches, occasionally surrendering to the wildly eddying currents the quota of leaves demanded. Everything was dripping wet; water fell from the umbrella in streams; water slid ceaselessly down the sides of the big red wagon; water formed pools on top. From the nostrils and heaving bodies of the blanketed horses came clouds of steam.
Victor, though well protected, felt miserable and disgusted and, as it was his nature to always put the blame on others, he began to harbor an additional grievance against Dave Brandon.
“But for the big Indian I wouldn’t be here,” he grumbled to himself. “And just listen to the way he’s chinning to this Rodgers kid! It certainly is enough to make a fellow tired for a whole week.”
“No, I ain’t never had no chanc’t,” Joe was repeating, dolefully. “I ain’t no good at readin’ or writin’.”
“Would you go to school?” asked Dave.
“Wouldn’t I, though,” said Joe; “eh, Buster?”
He nudged Victor sharply in the ribs.
“Cut it out,” growled Victor.
“I can’t,” grinned Joe. “Ribs is ginerally cut out by surgeons. Whoa! Gee! It’s most time we ketched up to them elephants.”