It wasn’t until I saw Paddy’s ear prick up like a rabbit’s that I noticed the gun-boat on the trail ahead. At least I thought it was a gun-boat, for a minute or two, until I cantered closer and saw that it was a huge gray touring-car half foundered in the prairie-mud. Beside it sat a long lean man in very muddy clothes and a rather disreputable-looking hat. He sat with a ridiculously contented look on his face, smoking a small briar pipe, and he laughed outright as I circled his mud-hole and came to a stop opposite the car with its nose poked deep down in the mire, for all the world like a rooting shote.
“Good morning, Diana,” he said, quite coolly, as he removed his battered-looking cap.
His salutation struck me as impertinent, so I returned it in the curtest of nods.
“Are you in trouble?” I asked.
“None whatever,” he airily replied, still eying me. “But my car seems to be, doesn’t it?”
“What’s wrong?” I demanded, determined that he shouldn’t elbow me out of my matter-of-factness.
He turned to his automobile and inspected it with an indifferent eye.
“I turned this old tub into a steam-engine, racing her until the water boiled, and she got even with me by blowing up an intake hose. But I’m perfectly satisfied.”