that should be required for Murray’s carelessness.
He jammed down the brake; gripped up the reins in one hand, and fought for his own life and the boy’s as best he might.
And something in the back of his head was saying:
“D——— Murray! I wish he was in behind there to take it with us.”
The team ripped over the saddle with the coach rocking, and Randal guarding the reins, half choked, and very nearly mad with pain at the opening wound on his chest. Art Scannell was kneeling on the box with his dark boy face level with Randal’s. The thick-lashed eyes and straight features were cruelly like Effie’s, and the words on his mouth were such as sickened Randal. The boy’s hands shut over Randal’s, and the whole weight of his body lay across the taut arms. Randal felt the team check, swing to the strain, and heard the sob of soft grass cut under the hoofs. His hands slid, snatched, held again; and he came to the box bottom with Art. Here they fought, with Randal doubled sideways, and the handling of the reins his yet, though control had gone this long time past. Art Scannell’s arms were warmly close about him, and the smooth cheek rubbing Randal’s was torture. He crushed the boy down, kneeling on him, forcing him with all his gasping strength; and round
