"Whose buggy?"

"I don't know anything about the buggy; but if 'Lightfoot' doesn't
sink in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a
false prophet."

"Oh, no," said Matthew, incredulously. "Frank wouldn't do an
outrageous thing like that. Lightfoot won't be in a condition to
drive for a month to come."

"I don't care. She's out now; and the way she was putting it down
when I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy."

"Where did he get her?" was inquired.

"She's been in the six-acre field, over by Mason's Bridge, for the
last week or so," Matthew answered. "Well; all I have to say," he
added, "is that Frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped.
I never saw such a young rascal. He cares for no good, and fears
no evil. He's the worst boy I ever saw."

"It would hardly do for you to call him a boy to his face," said
one of the men, laughing.

"I don't have much to say to him in any way," replied Matthew,
"for I know very well that if we ever do get into a regular
quarrel, there'll be a hard time of it. The same house will not
hold us afterward--that's certain. So I steer clear of the young
reprobate."