"Git out of the road, will you?" cried Fletcher, half rising from
his seat and jerking at the reins until the horses reared. "Drive
your brutes into the bushes and let me pass!"

"If you think I'm going to swerve an inch out of my road to
oblige you, Bill Fletcher, you are almost as big a fool as you
are a rascal," replied Christopher in a cool voice, as he brought
his team to a halt and placed himself at the head of it with his
long rawhide whip in his hand.

As he stood there he had the appearance of taking his time as
lightly as did the Olympian deities; and it was clear that he
would wait patiently until the sun set and rose again rather than
yield one jot or tittle of his right upon the muddy road. While
he gazed placidly over Fletcher's head into the golden distance,
he removed his big straw hat and began fanning his heated face.

There followed a noisy upbraiding from Fletcher, which ended by
his driving madly into the underbrush and almost overturning the
heavy carriage. As he passed, he leaned from his seat and slashed
his whip furiously into Christopher's face; then he drove on at a
wild pace, bringing the horses in a shiver, and flecked with
foam, into the gravelled drive before the Hall.

The bright flower-beds and the calm white pillars were all in
sunshine, and Miss Saidie, with a little, green wateringpot in
her hand, was sprinkling a tub of crocuses beside the steps.

"You look flustered, Brother Bill," she observed, as Fletcher