Molly was laughing, and clapping her hands joyfully.
"I knew it was Gran'pa!" she cried. "And—he's got a motor scooter!"
Even to her childlike and finite intelligence the painful truth was obvious.
"Restrain yourself!" I admonished. "Do think of the neighbors!"
And then Gran'pa drew his machine up at the side of the pavement. There was a sharp explosion, a puff of smoke issued from the rear of the platform, and strange quivers shook the framework.
The next moment Gran'pa toppled over into the gutter, where he began struggling with levers, handlebars and revolving wheels. The motor scooter seemed to be trying either to escape from or run over its passenger; but thanks to Gran'pa's extraordinary presence of mind, he managed to touch the right button, and the thing at last became silent and lifeless.
I helped him to his feet.
"Thank you, George!" he said, with an air of breezy politeness.
"Don't mention it," I replied beneath my breath. "Anything I can do to hasten the termination of this insane exhibition of childish enthusiasm . . ." I lost myself in the attempt to express my precise emotions.
"A mere side-slip," he murmured, using his hand as a species of carpet-beater. "I had a little trouble in starting, but didn't expect this." He again struck dust from his coat and trousers.