"It is not moving an inch!" announced the mournful voice from above.
"Can't you take hold of it nearer the back, and exert a little more
strength?"
Sandy bit his lip and shot a swift glance at Ruth. She was still
smiling. With savage determination he fell upon the wheel as if it had
been a mortal foe; he pushed and shoved and pulled, and finally, with
a rally of all his strength, he went on his knees in the mud and
lifted the phaeton back on the road.
Then came a collapse, and he leaned against the nearest tree and
struggled with the deadly faintness that was stealing over him.
"Why--why, you are the boy who was sick!" cried Ruth, in dismay.
Sandy, white and trembling, shook his head protestingly. "It's me
bellows that's rocky," he explained between gasps.
Mrs. Nelson rustled back into the phaeton, and taking a piece of money
from her purse, held it out to him.
"That will amply repay you," she said.
Sandy flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair. A tip,
heretofore a gift of the gods, had suddenly become an insult. Angry,
impetuous words rushed to his lips, and he took a step forward. Then
he was aware of a sudden change in the girl, who had just stepped into
the phaeton. She shot a quick, indignant look at her aunt, then turned
around and smiled a good-by to him.
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