“Then turn out more, you young vagabond! Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you, and should if you didn’t speak half so loud.”
“Curse your impudence! I tell you, turn out more!” exclaimed the stranger, becoming more and more angry. He had expected to get his own way without trouble. If Herbert had been a man, he would not have been so unreasonable; but he supposed he could browbeat a boy into doing whatever he chose to dictate. But he had met his match, as it turned out.
“I have already given you half the road,” said Herbert, firmly, “and I don’t intend to give you any more.”
“You don’t, eh? Young man, how old are you?”
“I am fourteen.”
“I should think you were forty by the airs you put on.”
“Is it putting on airs to insist on my rights?” asked our hero.
“Your rights!” retorted the other, laughing contemptuously.
“Yes, my rights,” returned Herbert, quietly. “I have a right to half of the road, and I have taken it. If I turn out any more, I shall go into the gully.”
“That makes no difference. A wetting won’t do you any harm. Your impudence needs cooling.”
“That may be,” said Herbert, who did not choose to get angry, but was resolved to maintain his rights; “but I object to the wetting, for all that, and as this wagon is not mine, I do not choose to upset it.”
“You are the most insolent young scamp I ever came across!” exclaimed the other, furiously. “I’ve a good mind to give you something much worse than a wetting.”
“Such as what?” asked our hero, coolly. In reply the man flourished his whip significantly. “Do you see that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, very well,” said the other, ironically; “I’m glad you do. Perhaps you wouldn’t like to feel it?”
“No, I don’t think I should,” said Herbert, not exhibiting the least apprehension.
The stranger handled his whip, eyeing our hero viciously at the same time, as if it would have afforded him uncommon pleasure to lay it over his back. But there was something in the look of our hero which unconsciously cowed him, and, much as he wished to strike him, he held back.
“Well, you’re a cool hand,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.
To this our hero did not see fit to make any reply. But he grasped his own whip a little tighter. So brutal had been the tone assumed by the stranger, that he was not sure but he might proceed to carry out his threat, and lay the whip over his back. He determined, in that case, to give him as good as he sent. I will not express any opinion as to the propriety of this determination, but I am certain, from what I know of our hero’s fearless spirit, that he would not have hesitated to do it, be the consequences what they might. But he did not have the opportunity.
“Once more,” demanded the stranger, furiously; “are you going to turn out?”
“No,” said the boy, decidedly.
“Then—I’ll run you down.”
So saying, he brought the whip violently on the horse’s back. The latter gave a convulsive spring forward. But his driver had not taken into consideration that the farm-wagon was the stronger of the two vehicles, and that in any collision the buggy must come off second best. So it happened that a wheel of the buggy was broken, and the driver, in the shock, thrown sprawling into a puddle on the other side of the road. The wagon suffered no damage, but the old horse, terrified, set off at a rapid pace. Herbert looked back to see if the stranger was injured, but seeing that he had already picked himself up unwounded, but decidedly dirty, he concluded to keep on his way to the mill.
The driver of the overturned vehicle was considerably more angry than hurt at this catastrophe.
It chafed his pride not a little to think that, after all his vaunts, the boy had maintained his ground, and got the better of him. For a man of forty-five to be worsted by a boy of fourteen was, it must be confessed, a little mortifying. It was something like a great ship of the line being compelled to surrender to a little monitor.
No one feels particularly dignified or good-natured when he is picking himself out of a mud puddle. Our black-haired acquaintance proved no exception to this remark. He shook his fist at the receding wagon and its occupant—a demonstration of defiance which our hero did not witness, his back being now turned to his late opponent.
Mr. Abner Holden—for this was the stranger’s name—next turned his attention to the buggy, which had been damaged to some extent, and so was likely to involve him in expense. This was another uncomfortable reflection. Meanwhile, as it was no longer in a fit state for travel, he must contrive some way to have it carried back to the stable, and, unless he could procure another vehicle, perform the rest of the journey on foot.
Luckily, some men in a neighboring field had witnessed the collision, and, supposing their services might be required, were now present to lend their aid.
“Pretty bad accident,” remarked one of them. “That ‘ere wheel’ll need considerable tinkering afore it’s fit for use. How came you to get it broke so, squire?”
“A little rascal had the impudence to dispute the road with me, and would not turn out at my bidding,” said Mr. Holden, in a tone of exasperation, which showed that his temper had been considerably soured by the accident.
“Wouldn’t turn out? Seems to me from the marks of the wheels, you must have been drivin’ along in the middle of the road. I guess you didn’t take the trouble to turn out, yourself.”
“Well, there was room enough for the boy to turn out one side,” said Holden, doggedly.
“You are slightly mistaken, stranger,” said the other, who was disgusted at the traveler’s unreasonableness. “There wasn’t room; as anyone can see that’s got eyes in his head. Didn’t the youngster turn out at all?”
“Yes,” snapped Holden, not relishing the other’s free speech.
“Then it seems you were the one that would not turn out. If you had been a leetle more accommodating, this accident couldn’t have happened. Fair play’s my motto. If a feller meets you halfway, it’s all you have a right to expect. I reckon it’ll cost you a matter of ten dollars to get that ‘ere buggy fixed.”
Holden looked savagely at the broken wheel, but that didn’t mend matters. He would have answered the countryman angrily, but, as he stood in need of assistance, this was not good policy.
“What would you advise me to do about it?” he inquired.
“You will have to leave the buggy where it is just now. Where did you get it?”
“Over at the mill village.”
“Well, you’d better lead the horse back—‘tain’t more’n a mile or so—get another wagon, and tell ‘em to send for this.”
“Well, perhaps that is the best way.”
“Where was you goin’?”
“Over to Waverley.”
“That’s where the boy came from.”
“What boy?”
“The boy that upset you.”
“What is his name?” asked Abner Holden, scowling.
“His name is Herbert Mason, son of the Widder Mason that died two or three weeks since. Poor boy, he’s left alone in the world.”
“Where’s he stopping?” asked Holden, hardly knowing why he asked the question.
“Dr. Kent took him in after the funeral,