Molly's self-control gave way and she broke into an unmusical "run" of explosive giggles.
I looked at Gran'pa, smacking himself; at Molly, trying to stuff a handkerchief into her mouth; at the ugly, motionless machine in the gutter; at the sprawling patch of grease on the pavement; and, lastly, at the inevitable "gathering of clans"—that convergence of fellow creatures on any scene which is rich in "possibilities."
"Molly! Take that wretched contrivance 'round to the back," I commanded, at the same time seizing Gran'pa by the arm.
But, with a sudden twist, the old man freed himself, and behaved like a schoolboy with a new bicycle.
"No!" he said, firmly. "I'll look after that, thank you!"
"I don't care who looks after it," I snapped, "so long as we get the beastly thing away before the crowd arrives."
"All right, George! You needn't lose your temper!"
He caught hold of the handlebars and I picked up his hat from the pavement. Much to the spectators' amusement (and sorrow), we hastily withdrew to the security of the back garden, where Gran'pa again began to make himself objectionable.
"I'm afraid it may have been damaged," he said, peering round and about it. "I'll just try it down the path here."
"If you run into my celery bed I'll murder you!" I growled in the sotto voce I so often adopted with the old man.