We're
looking to you for it!"
"Hur-r-r-rup!" cheered Herb, subduing his shout to the requirements of a
settlement, but sending his battered hat some ten feet into the air, and
recovering it with a dexterous shoot of his long arm, by way of giving
his friends an inspiring send-off.
"Tell you what it is!" he said suddenly, turning upon the Farrars, "I
never guided Britishers till now; but, wherever you sprung from, you're
clean grit. If a man is that, it don't matter a whistle to me what
country riz him."
A few minutes afterwards, with a jingle, jangle, lurch, and rattle, the
stage-coach was swaying its way out of Greenville. Dol, stooping from
his seat upon it, gripped the guide's hand in a wringing good-by.
"Herb," he said, "we three fellows want you to stay here for a few days,
and not to do anything about a second-hand rifle until you hear from us.
Mind!"
And so it happened that, ten days or so later, while the three were
enjoying the hospitalities of the Sinclairs and "their crowd" in the
Quaker City, Herb, who was still in Greenville, waiting for a fresh
engagement as guide, was accosted by the driver of the coach from
Bangor.
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