“Try it again,” commanded the voice. “And keep her up all the way along. We'll shake up the 'nerves' I guess. Hooray!” This was enough. I understood now what Dean had meant by the Coltons realizing that the Lane was still open. I ran at full speed through the scrub and bushes, through the grove, and emerged upon the Lane directly opposite the Colton estate. The wagon--Zeb Kendrick's weir cart--was approaching. Zeb was driving and behind him in the body of the cart were four or five young fellows whom I recognized as belonging to the “billiard room gang,” an unorganized society whose members worked only occasionally but were responsible for most of the mischief and disorder in our village. Tim Hallet, a sort of leader in that society, with the reputation of having been expelled from school three times and never keeping a job longer than a fortnight, was on the seat beside Kendrick, his back to the horse. Zeb was grinning broadly. The wagon came nearer, the horse barely moving. Tim Hallet waved his arm. “Now, boys,” he shouted, “let's have some music.” “'Everybody works but father, And he sets around all day.'-- Whoop her up!” They whooped her up. I stepped out into the road. “Here!” I shouted. “Stop that! Stop it, do you hear! Kendrick, what is all this?” The song stopped in the middle of the verse. Zeb jerked the reins and shouted “Whoa!” Hallet and his chorus turned. They had been gazing at the big house, but now they turned and looked at me. “Hello, Ros!” said Kendrick, still grinning, but rather sheepishly. “How be you? Got quite a band aboard, ain't I.” “Hello!” cried Hallet. “It's Ros himself! Ros, you're all RIGHT! Hi, boys! let's give three cheers for the feller that don't toady to nobody--millionaires nor nobody else--hooray for Ros Paine!” The cheering that followed was not quite as loud as the previous outburst--some of the “gang” may have noticed my attitude and expression--but it was loud enough. Involuntarily I glanced toward the Colton mansion. I saw no one at the windows or on the veranda, and I was thankful for that. The blood rushed to my face. I was so angry that, for the moment, I could not speak. Tim Hallet appeared to consider my silence and my crimson cheeks as acknowledgments of the compliment just paid me. “Cal'late they heard that over yonder,” he crowed. “Don't you think so, Ros. We've showed 'em what we think of you; now let's give our opinion of them. Three groans for old Colton! Come on!” Even Zeb seemed to consider this as going too far, for he protested. “Hold on, Tim!” he cautioned. “A joke's a joke, but that's a little too much; ain't it, Ros.” “Too much be darned!” scoffed Hallet. “We'll show 'em! Now, boys!” The groans were not given. I sprang into the road, seized the horse by the bridle and backed the wagon into the bank. Tim, insecurely balanced, fell off the seat and joined his comrades on the cart floor.