"Go to thunder!" said Tom.
"Yes, sir." Wattles retreated, shivering violently. After a minute more sounds reached him from beneath the rug and again he leaned closer.
"I'll promise, Wattles, you blamed idiot! Only take this horse blanket off me!"
"Yes, indeed, sir! Just a moment!" Wattles's hands were busied, the restraint vanished from Tom's arms, the awful robe dragged chokingly away from his face, and he sat up, gasping. Wattles, balancing himself precariously on his feet, was holding the robe and, as shown by the brief radiance of a passing light, shivering like an aspen. Tom could almost hear the chattering of his teeth. That momentary vision of the long, mournful countenance, agitated by the shivers that chased up and down Wattles's spine, was too much for Tom. He forgot that he was dreadfully angry, and humiliated and burst into wild laughter.
The driver turned an inquiring face, looked briefly, and unemotionally gave his attention back to the road. Wattles, fearing hysteria, looked down in grave anxiety, and shivered harder than ever. At last: "For the love of mud, Wattles, put your coat on!" gasped Tom as he weakly pulled himself onto the seat.
"Yes, sir, just what I was about to do, sir." Nevertheless, Wattles first placed the robe over Tom's knees, and tucked it about him carefully. Then, at last, he managed to get his wavering hands into the armholes of his coat, buttoned it tightly and seated himself at the extreme limit of the wide seat. "If you'd prefer
