“You lie, I don’t quit. I just stop a little while and then I begin again.” Ginkle once more set up a loud bawling.
“Well, boy, what’s the matter? Can’t you stop long enough to tell us?” asked one of the men as he climbed down and started for the gate.
“Guess he’s purty near too young to explain,” remarked the chauffeur.
“My grannyfader, he hurted. He tumble on de tree,” sobbed Ginkle. The moment he saw the man coming toward him he set out at a run, “Grannyfader, he here,” continued the lad, as he ran and sobbed.
“Believe me, that kid c’n run,” exclaimed the stranger, as he climbed back into the machine. The Ford started, rattled its usual way, and in a moment they were following the boy up the sandy road. When they caught up, one of the men jumped out and ran to catch the hurrying lad, and for the rest of the way he followed him, for the little chap jumped about and refused to be picked up. On ahead they hurried, and the car followed behind them until they reached the place where Ginkle insisted on going into the woods.
“Grannyfader, he here,” he explained. There was nothing to do but to follow the little guide. The stranger had not yet been able to get an idea as to what might be the matter. His companion stopped the machine and came hurrying after into the bushes.
“Oho!” exclaimed the man leading Ginkle, “so this is what’s the matter. Believe me, friend, you’re in bad.”
“So he got help, did he?” groaned Grandfather, as he twisted his head to look.
“The little feller sure raised some holler,” assured the man, as he bent down, touched Grandfather on the head, and felt of his hand.
“Say,” said the companion, who had also now come up, and was bending to look, “It’s lucky, all right, there seems to be a kind o’ hollow.”