Randal held the four together with delicate touch. Art Scannell was talking in a virile Saxon speech that brought laughter to both who heard.
“Randal, he’s standing up—going to deliver his testimony. Go steady—pity to lose this.”
The two giggled with an hysterical clutch at their throats. For pity and disgust marched with laughter at the delirious ribaldry of the boy’s talk. The off-wheel lifted on a tussock, and the babble broke with a snap.
“Short-circuited him that time,” said Murray at the window. “He’s under the seat———”
The clap of the door came on the words, and Murray’s shout:
“Randal! He’s out! Randal! Stop, for the Lord’s sake!”
Randal’s start scared the team. It plunged, reached on the reins, and in that instant something swarmed up the wheel as a gorilla might have done, and fastened on Randal’s shoulders, jerking him back to meet hot breath on his cheek.
“I’ve come up to drive,” said Art Scannell, with quick lissom fingers sliding to the reins. “Give ’em to me, Randal. Curse you! Give ’em up———”
By the cut of the wind past his ear, and the spring that assuredly loosened his wrists in their sockets, Randal guessed at the payment
