“Well,” remarked the judge, “maybe Hibbard deserves a licking—but he’ll get worse than that before I’m done with him. You keep hands off,” he added to Fortune; “I’ll not stand for any rough-house.”
He pushed Fortune away and nodded to Clancy to take charge of him and restrain his hostile ardor. Clancy at once passed to the side of his friend and caught his arm restrainingly. Rockwell, who did not seem to recognize Fortune as a relative, got off into the background once more.
“So,” went on the judge, in scathing tones, again giving attention to Dirk Hibbard, “you take my car out without permission and go over mountain trails with it at forty miles an hour! What have you to say for yourself?”
“Judge Pembroke,” answered Hibbard, “these two hoboes are pullin’ the wool over your eyes. I don’t see why you are taking their word against mine. You know me, and they’re strangers. Is that right?”
“Did I, or did I not, tell you never to take that machine out of the garage without permission?” flared the judge.
“Why, yes, but——”
“You knew my wishes. To-day you thought I was going to Prescott, and you deliberately disobeyed instructions. I changed my mind about going north and telephoned the garage for the car. Rockwell told me you had taken the car and gone north by this road. He and I followed you, and found you at the foot of the mountain, with the car disabled. Where have you been, Hibbard?”
The chauffeur wore a guilty look, but he made a show of defending himself.
“The motor wasn’t workin’ well, judge,” said he, “and I took the car over the trail to get it in shape.”
“Oh, you did!” answered the judge. “You took it over the mountain trail at forty miles an hour—just to get the motor in shape! Likely yarn! You seem to have got it in excellent condition, for the car is disabled and can’t turn a wheel. Why don’t you fix it?”