William stopped in his tracks and turned on Leighton.

“Glen,” he said, “I don’t know ez you c’n stand to ride in the old kerryall.  I ain’t brought no sofy pillows, ner even a fire-screen to keep the sun from sp’ilin’ yer complexion.”

Leighton smiled, but said nothing.  They had reached the carryall, an old hickory structure sadly in need of paint.  Hitched to it were two rangy bays.  The harness was a piece of ingenious patchwork, fitted with hames instead of collars.  Leighton stepped into the back seat, and Lewis followed.  William unhitched the horses and climbed into the cramped front seat.  When he had settled down, his knees seemed to be peering over the dash-board.  “Gid ap!” he cried, and the bays started off slowly across the bridge.

The road to the homestead followed down the river for three miles before it took to the hills.  No sooner had the carryall made the turn into the River Road than the bays sprang forward so suddenly that Lewis’s hat flew off backward, and for a moment he thought his head had followed.

“Heh!” he called, “I’ve lost my hat!”

“Never mind your hat, Son,” shouted William.  “Silas’ll pick it up.”

The bays evidently thought he was shouting at them.  They let their enormous stride out another link.  The carryall plowed through the dust, rattled over pebbles, and, where the road ran damp under overhanging trees, shot four streams of mud from its flying wheels.  Old William chewed steadily at the cud of tobacco he had kept tucked in his cheek during the interview at the station.  His long arms were stretched full length along the taut reins.  If he had only had hand-holds on them, he would have been quite content.  As it was, he was grinning.

“Gee, Dad!” gasped Lewis, “d’you know those horses are still trotting!”

Leighton leaned forward.

“Got a match, William?” he shouted above the creak and rattle of the carryall.

“Heh?” yelled William.

The bays let out another link.

“Got a match?” repeated Leighton.  “I want to smoke.”

William waved his beard at his left-hand pocket.

As they struck a bit of quiet, soft road, Leighton called: 

“Why don’t you let ’em out?  You’ve gone and left your whip at home.  How are we going to get up the hill?”

The grin faded from Old William’s face. “Gid ap!” he roared, and then the bays showed what they could really do in the way of hurrying for the doctor.  The old carryall leaped a thank-you-ma’am clean.  When it struck, the hickory wheels bent to the storm, but did not break.  Instead, they shot their load into the air.  A low-hanging branch swooped down and swept the canopy, supports and all, off the carryall.  William never looked back.

Lewis clung to the back of the front seat.

“D-d-dad,” he stuttered, “p-please don’t say anything more to him!  D-d’you know they’re still trotting?”