As Orville came near the Marten mansion he cried “Ah-h-h!” in the relieved tones of one who has been falling for half an hour and at last sees ground in sight.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Mr. Marten wonderingly, as the carriage, instead of stopping, sped along the roadway.
“Sprained foot. Can’t walk. Auto out of order. Can’t stop. Good-by till I come round again. Awful hungry. Merry Christmas!”
“Ah ha!” said Joe Burton. “I told you that it was an accident. Sprained his foot and lost power over vehicle. I don’t see the connection, but let us be thankful that he isn’t under the wheels, with a broken neck, or winding round and round the axle.”
“But what’s to be done?” said Mrs. Marten. “He says he’s hungry.”
“Tell you what!” said Mr. Burton, in his explosive way. “Put some food on a plate, and when the carriage comes round again I’ll jump aboard, and he can eat as he travels.”
“He loves purée of celery,” said Mrs. Marten.
“Very well. Put some in a clean lard-pail or a milk-pail. Little out of the ordinary, but so is the accident, and he can’t help his hunger. Hunger is no disgrace. I didn’t think he’d ever eat soup again, to tell the truth. I was making up my mind whether a wreath or a harp would be better.”
“Oh, you are so morbid, Mr. Burton,” said his wife, while Mrs. Marten told the maid to get a pail and put some purée into it.
