chauffeur. "We ain't a-goin' to hurt your horses. Pull out so we
can pass. If you don't . . ."

"That'll do you, sport," was Billy's retort. "You can't talk that
way to yours truly. I got your number an' your tag, my son.
You're standin' on your foot. Back up the grade an' get off of
it. Stop on the outside at the first psssin'-place an' we'll pass
you. You've got the juice. Throw on the reverse."

After a nervous consultation, the chauffeur obeyed, and the car
backed up the hill and out of sight around the turn.

"Them cheap skates," Billy sneered to Saxon, "with a couple of
gallons of gasoline an' the price of a machine a-thinkin' they
own the roads your folks an' my folks made."

"Talkin' all night about it?" came the chauffeur's voice from
around the bend. "Get a move on. You can pass."

"Get off your foot," Billy retorted contemptuously. "I'm a-comin'
when I'm ready to come, an' if you ain't given room enough I'll
go clean over you an' your load of chicken meat."

He slightly slacked the reins on the restless, head-tossing
animals, and without need of chirrup they took the weight of the
light vehicle and passed up the hill and apprehensively on the
inside of the purring machine.

"Where was we?" Billy queried, as the clear road showed in front.
"Yep, take my boss. Why should he own two hundred horses, an'