After the first glad salutations Whitley pointed to his car, and announced that he was going to drive the party over to Encampment.
“Sorry to be starting in opposition to the regular stage,” he said with a sly little wink in Roderick’s direction. “But you see Mr. Rankin’s horses are hardly good enough for the occasion.”
Jim drew himself up and pointed to his old Concord stage coach standing by, all ready for the road.
“The dangnationest finest pair uv roan leaders and span uv blacks at the wheel that ever had lines over ‘em in this part of the country,” he declared sturdily. “Just wait a bit, young man. ‘Fore we’re many miles on the road I make free to prognosticate you’ll be under the bed-springs uv that new fangled wagon uv yours and my hosses will be whizzing past you like a streak uv greased lightnin’. How would a little bet uv ten or twenty dollars suit you?”
“Oh, bankers never gamble,” replied Whitley with undisturbed gravity. “Well, you’ll follow with the luggage, Mr. Rankin, and no doubt we’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again sometime tomorrow. Come away, Miss Holden. Luncheon is to be waiting at my hotel in Encampment in a couple of hours.”
“Blame his skin,” muttered Jim when the big automobile had whirled away. But Tom Sun was convulsed with laughter.
“He got your dander fairly riz, Jim,” he chuckled.
Jim’s visage expanded into a broad grin.
“Guess that’s just what he was arter. But ain’t he the most sassy cock-a-whoop little cuss anyhow?”
“Shall I help you with the luggage?” laughed Tom Sun.