The Senator asked slowly, “Is there such a thing as a livery stable in this”--he gulped--“in this town?” “I guess old man Barnes could let you have some sort of a horse. He's got a place just the other side of Hogan's. I'll go down there with you if you like.” The parley with Barnes took only a few minutes, and at half-past three the Senator drove down the main street and turned west toward the river road. His vehicle was a light delivery wagon with a canopy over it, and was drawn by a ragged old white horse, which, according to the livery man, was an exceptional animal. “The General's an aristocrat, he is,” said Barnes. “I might say a thoroughbred. I hate like poison to let him out to a stranger, but I let you take him because I see you understand a horse.” There was no flicker of intelligence in the agent's face as he heard the words, but when the Senator asked him to accompany him on the drive he declined. “I want to be on hand,” he explained, “when Jim Weeks comes down the line.” So Senator Jones started out alone on his drive to Truesdale, and the agent watched him from the door of Hogan's saloon. “Go along with him!” he thought. “I guess not. It'd be a circus, though, to see what happens when they get to the river bridge.” Then, as Barnes joined him on the steps, he added, “What do you suppose the General will do to him?” “Oh, he won't hurt him,” answered Barnes. “He'll just turn around and come home when he gets good and ready. Come in and have something.” The General took a violent dislike to the Senator. It annoyed him to have people try to make him go whither he would not, and he shook his head angrily in response to the impatient jerks at the reins. When the Senator tried to accelerate the pace by whacking his toughened flanks with the whip, he kicked up his heels derisively and then stumbled along more wearily if possible than before. The miles crept by as slowly as he could wish, and he was pleased when they passed a fork of the road and he knew he was being driven to the river. He disliked rivers, and had long ago decided that he would never cross one. That his resolution had once been broken was not his fault, for they had dragged him over the Oakwood bridge at the end of a stout rope; but this only made him firmer in his determination, and people who drove him were wont to stay on the west side of the river.