The Farringtons were quite willing to refresh the stranger within their gates, and they all enjoyed the merry little picnic.
“Where are you bound?” asked Mr. Phelps as he prepared to continue his way.
“To Pine Branches first,” said Mrs. Farrington, “the country house of a friend. It’s near Springfield, and from there we shall make short trips, and later on, continue our way in some other direction,—which way we haven’t yet decided.”
“Good enough,” said Mr. Phelps, “then I’ll probably see you again. I am often a guest at Pine Branches myself, and shall hope to run across you.”
As every motorist is necessarily interested in his friend’s car, Mr. Phelps naturally turned to inspect the Farrington machine before getting into his own.
And so, to Roger’s chagrin, he was obliged to admit that he was even then under the necessity of mending a broken belt.
But to Roger’s relief, Mr. Phelps took almost no notice of it, merely saying that a detail defect was liable to happen to anybody. He looked over the vital parts of the motor, and complimented Roger on its fine condition. This pleased the boy greatly, and resuming his work after Mr. Phelps’ departure, he patched up the belt, while the others repacked the kit, and soon they started off again.
Swiftly and smoothly they ran along over the beautiful roads, occasionally meeting other touring-parties apparently as happy as they were themselves. Sometimes they exchanged merry greetings as they passed, for all motorists belong to one great, though unorganised, fraternity.
“I’ve already discovered that trifling accidents are a part of the performance, and I’ve also discovered that they’re easily remedied and soon over, and that when they are over they are quickly forgotten and it seems impossible that they should ever occur again.”
“You’ve sized it up pretty fairly, Patty,” said Roger, “and though I never before thought it out for myself, I agree with you that that is the true way to look at it.”